Relief
by smithereen
Summary: Set after Into the Woods and Reunion. Buffy goes to LA to drag Angel back from the edge, but he's not looking for help. And trouble follows her from Sunnydale. BuffyAngel, SpikeDru.
1. Part One

**Relief**

**-  
PART ONE**

Buffy sat on her bed, her back propped up against a stack of pillows, staring into the darkness. She pictured Riley's helicopter lifting off the ground, herself just a few seconds too late to stop it. She pictured herself screaming after him and tried to feel a pang of loss. She wanted to feel it. If she could feel pain over Riley's leaving then she'd know there was a chance she would one day open herself up to someone. To really love someone again. Wrong as Xander was about a lot of things, he had been right about one. She had shut Riley out. What he hadn't understood was that she was being completely honest when she told Riley she had given him all she had to give, that he had gotten the whole package. Apparently the package was damaged. She chewed on her bottom lip and was glad when her eyes filled with tears.

She should be crying over this. Her boyfriend was gone. She should be crying for Riley. But she wasn't. She was crying for herself. Because all she felt when she pictured the helicopter, when she heard her scream too faint to be heard over the chopper blades, all she felt was relief. She had tried her best, but she'd been too late. And she was glad, because Riley was gone and she wouldn't have to go through with it, through with trying again, forgiving him, really consciously trying to love him this time. If she'd stopped him she would have had a relationship on her hands, and it would have been hard, and she didn't think she could honestly deal with it. She'd watched him go and she'd been glad she'd failed, and it worried her. What kind of person did that make her? What kind of ice had frozen her heart so deep that she could feel nothing?

The phone rang, and she blinked hard. She looked blankly at the clock on her bedside table. On the second ring she gathered her wits and hesitantly picked up the receiver.

"Hello?" she said.

"Buffy," a man with a refined British voice said, half questioning.

"Yes," she said. "Who is this? Do you realize it's 2:30 in the morning?"

"I do apologize for waking you," the man continued, and she began to recognize him now.

"Wesley?" she said, not bothering to explain that she hadn't been asleep.

"Yes," he confirmed, and her heart skipped a beat.

"What's wrong?" She sat up straight, leaning forward slightly.

"It's Angel," he said, and now she could hear the tension in his voice. Fear began to claw, hot and tight, at her insides, and she wanted to scream. She took a deep breath instead.

"Is he-" she hesitated, then continued, "Is he hurt?"

"Not exactly," Wesley said. "But it's bad. He's- He's on the edge, Buffy. And he won't let us help him. He fired us."

"You and Cordelia?" Buffy asked. "What do you mean he's on the edge?"

"And Gunn. It's a long story." Wesley's voice was tinged with weariness. "But the gist of it is he's heading into the darkness. And I think you may be the only one who can bring him back."

Buffy stared at the wall, waiting for the ex-Watcher's words to sink in. She shook her head. "What the hell is going on down there? What did he do?"

"It's been building for a while," Wesley said softly. "Darla's back. Wolfram and Hart brought her back as a human. And now Drusilla's turned her."

"Darla is alive and no one thought to tell me?" she said, anger now adding color to her confusion. "Drusilla's there too and no one picked up a phone until now? Don't you think I had a right to know?"

"I'm sorry," Wesley said. "We were dealing with it. We didn't-"

"Never mind," Buffy interrupted sharply. "I'll be there in a couple hours. The last bus to LA leaves from here in 20 minutes. Be at the station to pick me up." She slammed the phone into the cradle, not waiting for an answer. She stared at the wall for a long moment, seething quietly to herself. Then she picked up the phone and slammed it down again, this time hard enough to break the receiver. She rooted wildly underneath her bed, pulled out a bag and her purse, and tossed them onto the bed. She threw a couple outfits into the bag along with a crossbow, a small ax, and a few stakes. Muttering angrily to herself, she zipped the bag shut and wrote a short note to her mother. She grabbed her toothbrush on the way down the stairs and forced herself not to slam the door as she left the house.

Spike watched her from behind the tree underneath her window as she started toward the bus station, her shoulders tight, stiff. He stamped out his cigarette, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he considered what he'd heard her say on the phone. Drusilla was back, and the Slayer was about to go drag the great poof's ass back in line. Both were sure to offer some amusement. It seemed a road trip was in order.

Buffy fought a sense of deja vu as she stared at the blue, red and grey fabric of the seat in front of her. She wondered if it was the same bus. She tried to close her eyes and rest, as she'd tried several times during the trip from Sunnydale; but her heart refused to slow its pounding, and her mind refused to stop whirling and bubbling. The bus' brakes broke the air conditioned silence with a long high-pitched squeal. She peered out the window into the sickly fluorescent light of the LA Greyhound station. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her bag off the seat beside her and stood up, exiting the bus with the small number of other passengers.

She stood alone under the cement overhang and waited. Her face calm, her arms relaxed by her side, bag in hand. People walked by her as if she were not there and she laughed to think that they couldn't feel the anger radiating off her in waves. She refused to look at her watch. The rest of the passengers disappeared, leaving her alone in the quiet of the deserted parking lot. The rumble of an engine motor broke the silence, and she watched impassively as a large truck pulled up next to her. The driver, a young black man, stuck his head through the window.

"You Buffy?" he said. She nodded. "Gunn. Wesley sent me."

"Where is he?" she answered.

"Angel's the only one besides me with wheels," he said. "Unless you wanted to catch a ride on a British dude's motorcycle."

"You've got to be kidding," she said.

Gunn shook his head. "Hop in." Buffy shrugged, and climbed in on the passenger's side, putting her bag at her feet. "You can put that in the back," Gunn said, indicating the bag with a nod of his shaved head. Buffy shrugged again.

"I've got room."

"Your call." Gunn put the truck in gear and backed out of the parking lot, glancing surreptitiously at the petite blonde in the passenger's seat.

"What?" Buffy said, catching the look.

"You're just tinier than I expected," Gunn said. "No offense. You hear Slayer you think, I don't know, big, scary. But I can see Angel's got a type now."

He noticed the hard set of Buffy's jaw and the way her gaze stayed locked on the corner of the dashboard. "I do something to piss you off?"

"Not you," the words emerged from her mouth clipped with suppressed anger. Gunn nodded, checking behind him in the rearview mirror. He passed the lone car on the road with a swift turn of the steering wheel.

"Not a Darla fan," he said. She raised her eyebrow. "And I'm guessin' not too happy with Angel right now either." Buffy's chest hitched as she gave one understated chuckle. "I'm not much of a fan right now either," Gunn said. They sat in silence for several minutes.

"You got any weapons in there?" he asked, indicating the bag again.

"Ax, some stakes," Buffy said. "Crossbow."

"My kind of girl," Gunn said with a smile.

"What are you packing?" Buffy asked.

"Mace and sword under the seat," Gunn said. "Just got stakes on me. Figured I wouldn't need much if I got the Slayer to protect me." Buffy smiled, and the curve of her lips was almost natural.

"How did you get..." Buffy hesitated, "involved with Angel and the evil fighting anyway?"

"The evil fighting is how I got involved with him," Gunn said with a grim smile. "Me and my boys tried to kill him. I've found that's the best way to deal with demons."

"But now you work for him?" Buffy asked

"Worked," Gunn corrected. "Hang around Angel and you get a chance to kill some pretty nasty stuff." He glanced in the rearview before a turn. "It's a perk." He snorted suddenly. "But I guess having a soul don't change the fact that deep down he's still a vampire."

Buffy glanced at Gunn, then stared out the window and watched the streetlights whip by. "You don't know the half of it," she said.

"And I get the feeling you don't want me to ask," Gunn said.

"You can ask," Buffy said. "I just won't tell." She met his gaze with serious eyes. He shrugged before turning his eyes back to the road.

"I just hope he'll listen to you," he said. "He sure as hell wasn't listening to us." Buffy directed an unseeing gaze out the window, trying not to think, not yet. After a long moment Gunn spoke again. "It's not far now. Shouldn't take too long."

Buffy nodded, her empty gaze still fixed on the window.

Spike pulled into the parking lot outside a rundown, seemingly deserted building. There were a couple other cars in the lot, but the windows were dark. He turned off the engine, and climbed out of his car, game face on. He knocked twice on the door, and a small panel slid open. Two glowing red eyes stared at him for a long second, then the panel slid shut, and the door swung open. Spike smiled, his tongue flicking over fangs, and entered the bar.

Several scaly green beasts sat at a table in the corner nursing drinks that were too red to be beer. In the middle of the room, a pair of slimy looking grey guys were throwing small knives at a dart board. The tentacles on the bartender's head perked up slightly, wriggling, as Spike walked across the room. It was the only sign that any of them had seen him. He noticed a vampire alone at a table near the bar, his head resting on the dingy surface where he slumped, asleep or unconscious.

Spike reached the vampire with two long steps, grabbed the back of his neck, and jerked him up out of his seat. The vampire's eyes flew open, and he shook shaggy black hair out his eyes. He twisted in Spike's grip, growling.

"Shut up," Spike said. The other vampire continued to struggle, too drunk to be very effective with his flailing fists and feet.

"What is this?" he asked, turning his head awkwardly against Spike's grip.

"A simple search for information," Spike said. "Unless you don't stop wiggling about like a worm on a bloody hook."

The man stilled, still growling faintly.

"Better," Spike said. He dropped the vampire, and its knees crumpled as it landed unexpectedly back on the floor. It regained it's balance and turned on Spike. Spike raised a scarred eyebrow, and the vampire stopped, just waiting. "Two women," Spike said. "One blonde. One brunette. Big teeth. Bigger appetites. Go by Darla and Drusilla. You seen them?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Who are you to-" the vampire started to say.

Spike's fist shot out, and the vampire's nose broke with a crunch. "Shit, man!" the vampire exclaimed, grabbing his streaming nose. "You didn't have to do that," he whined. "I was going to tell you."

"Tell me now," Spike said, his voice cheerful, hiding the promise of pain.

"They came around here a couple nights ago," the vampire said. "Seemed like they were looking to build an army." He shrugged. "They said anyone interested in working with them could tryout at this warehouse by the docks." Spike narrowed his eyes. "Midnight tomorrow."

"Any particular warehouse, or is there just the one?" Spike asked.

"I don't know," the other vampire answered with a slight whine. "I didn't even see the card they left. I wasn't going to go, so I didn't-" Spike's hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat, black tipped nails digging into the pale flesh. "I swear!" the guy squealed.

Spike released him, and he stepped back, massaging his neck. "They'll probably be at another bar later, the Crypt or Randy's." He swiped at the blood still trickling from his nose. "I heard they've been making the rounds. Lots of buzz."

Spike crossed his arms over his chest, and cocked his head, watching the other vampire squirm under the scrutiny. He turned on his heel with a sudden movement, and headed for the door. "Thanks," he muttered over his shoulder, "I'd ask your name before I go, but I really don't care," and the door shut behind him.

Outside, he grinned. He turned his face up to the sky, spread his arms, and chuckled. He took a deep breath of unneeded air and dropped his arms. Still smiling, he slipped behind the wheel, and peeled out of the parking lot. He could feel the city. Feel violence in the air. Plots and plans. Thousands of heartbeats. And Dru. His smile faded as he remembered the chip, remembered that the heartbeats, the blood and bodies that kept the city warm were safe from him. He shook the thought away and pressed down hard on the gas. Nothing mattered but the fact that he was back in the thick of it. He wasn't going to stand on the sidelines or wait for Buffy to throw him a scrap, a demon to pound, a bit of kindness. Whatever Dru and Darla had planned, he was going to be part of it. And the city would scream.

Gunn took a hard left turn, and glanced over at Buffy, who hadn't spoken in a long while. "This is Cordelia's street," he said. "Her place is about two blocks up."

"Cordelia's?" Buffy said, rousing from her stupor to send him a surprised look. "I thought you were taking me to him."

Gunn shook his head and stopped at a nearly deserted intersection. "Wes said bring you back to Cordy's. He wants to give you the full story." The light changed, and he stepped on the gas. "Besides which, we don't even know if Angel's still at the hotel."

"Hotel?" Buffy said.

Gunn studied her with a raised eyebrow. "The Hyperion. Big, old ugly building. Home of Angel Investigations. Or what used to be..." He saw no recognition in her eyes, and shook his head with a wry grin. "You're out of the loop."

"That's an understatement on an epic scale," Buffy said, crossing her arms over her chest. She closed her eyes.

"It's probably none of my business," Gunn said. "But phones do work both ways. They both dial and ring."

"Yeah, well if I had called I would have gotten operator assistance since he moved without even telling-" she started. She took a deep breath and stopped. "You're right. It's none of your business."

"We're here," Gunn said with a bit of relief as he pulled to a stop outside an apartment complex.

Buffy grabbed her bag, then stopped. "I'm sorry," she said. "You're not seeing my best side." She shook her head as she opened her door. "I'm usually not-"

"Hey," Gunn said. "I work with a tortured, kind of psychotic vampire. A," he used his fingers to make air quotes, "rogue demon hunter. And Cordelia. You're like sweetness and light to me."

"Wow," Buffy said. "I can't believe you work with Cordelia. How are you not running for the hills right now?" She grinned, and he spread his hands in mock puzzlement. "Wait," she said, her brow wrinkling, as she stepped down out of the truck, "what's a rogue demon?"


	2. Part Two

**Relief**

**-  
PART TWO**

Gunn knocked on a door inside the apartment complex, and after a second it swung open. Gunn entered the room with a quick duck of his head, but Buffy hesitated outside, looking puzzled. He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she indicated the empty doorway.

"Who opened it?" she asked.

"Dennis," Gunn said. "Former tenant. Dead at the moment." He saw her doubtful look and continued. "He's harmless."

Buffy shrugged, raising her eyebrows, as she stepped inside.

"Buffy," Wesley said, hurrying in from the kitchen. He stopped when he reached her, unsure, then awkwardly extended his hand. Her lips turned up in a half-smile as she shook the offered appendage.

"Wesley," she said.

Cordelia entered the living room from her bedroom and studied Buffy with a gaze that swept from head to toe. "Hey," she said finally. She put her hands in the back pockets of the designer jeans she'd picked specially to go with the striking, tight red top she'd changed into as soon as she'd heard the Slayer was coming.

"Hey," Buffy answered. "It's been a while."

"Well, you know what they say. Time flies when you're having..." Cordelia stopped. "I guess that doesn't really apply to any of our lives does it?"

"Not of late," Buffy agreed, her face as blank as she could make it.

"You should sit," Cordelia said, unable to keep a slight tightness from her voice as she indicated the couch.

"Okay," Buffy answered. She dropped her bag by the side of the couch and sat, raising her eyes to the others who still stood. She tucked her hands under her thighs, and raised her shoulders. "Anyone want to tell me exactly what's going on around here?"

"Angel's lost it," Cordelia said bluntly.

"Great," Buffy said. "That really helps. I'm so glad I'm here instead of talking to Angel right now. Really, this is indispensible wisdom."

"Outstanding use of sarcasm," Cordelia said, her own sarcasm cutting. "Have you been practicing?"

"It's all rather complicated," Wesley broke in, doing his best to regain control. Some small semblance of control. "Wolfram and Hart-"

"Already lost," Buffy interrupted.

"Evil law firm," Gunn explained.

"There's another kind?" Buffy asked. She sighed at the lack of reaction from the others. "What, you've heard that one before?"

"In any case," Wesley continued. "They brought Darla back from the dead."

"How is that even possible?" Buffy asked. "None of her bones were lying around."

"It was a complex ritual involving the sacrifice of four vampire lives, and the sacred-" Wesley started.

"Got it," Buffy said, cutting him off. "It was complex. Not really caring about the details."

"Quite- Quite right," Wesley stuttered. He hesitated and took a steadying breath. "Yes," he stammered again. "Yes, well. She found some way to control Angel's dreams. Then she appeared, pretending to be someone else; and because she came back human...the entire incident-"

"Made us think Angel was a loony," Cordelia put in. "He'd been acting pretty erratic with the sleeping all the time and whatever."

"And that would have been a good time to call me," Buffy answered, her voice heated. "You know, before it all got out of control and went to hell. I mean, a five second message to say...Hey Buffy, Darla's back. But the last time she inhabited the earthly plane she was trying to shoot off my kneecaps, so I can see how you'd think I wouldn't be interested."

"Hey, little miss self-involved," Cordelia said, putting her hands on her hips. "Here's a newsflash. Angel has his own life now. And it's not all about you. Not to mention, Darla couldn't have cared less about you, or your stupid kneecaps."

"Cordy," Gunn said, as she took a breath, preparing to continue.

"What?" she snapped. She kept her eyes on Buffy. "We all know that everytime he sees her or talks to her, it puts him in full on brood mode. I'm sure we really needed to add more horror and angst to the situation by bringing her-"

"If you think all I do is bring horror, then why am I even here?" Buffy cut in, her fingers curling into fists.

"Because at this point, you can't make it any worse than it already is."

"Hello to the claws," Gunn said, as Buffy stood up, her voice rising above his.

"How dare you even-"

"Ladies," Wesley said.

"-speak to me that way?" Buffy said, rolling over his protest as if she hadn't heard him, as if he wasn't even there.

"Because you're the only one with the right to rant and yell?" Cordy answered. "Well, guess what? There's at least one person in the world that isn't going to roll over and sing the praises of Buffy. I-"

"Hey there," Gunn said loudly. They turned with clenched jaws and angry eyes to look at him. He took a deep breath. "So I guess it's safe to say that neither of you girls care that much about Angel?" He looked from one offended face to the other and shrugged. "Hey, you wanna let your arguing get in the way of helping him, that's your choice. But how 'bout you take it in the other room, where the two of us who're still trying to save us all from gettin' our asses killed won't have to listen to it. "

After a long second, Buffy sat back down on the couch with a thump. After another moment, Cordelia stepped around the coffee table to sit down beside her, arms crossed over her chest, her bottom lip pouting just slightly.

"Where was I?" Wesley asked.

"Darla really was back," Gunn said. "So he wasn't as crazy as we thought."

"Yes, and we eventually realized that," Wesley agreed. "But things continued to deteriorate, as it turned out Darla was dying in her human state. She was attempting to become a vampire again, and of course she wanted Angel to help her achieve that goal."

"But he wasn't having it," Gunn put in.

"Which didn't stop him from tormenting himself over it," Cordelia added.

"Because he wouldn't be Angel if he wasn't tormenting himself," Buffy said, offering a small smile to Cordelia, who returned it with only a little reluctance.

"He tried to save her life by undergoing a Trial," Wesley continued. "He passed, and by all rights should have won her life. However, her life had already been returned once when she was resurrected. And they refused to heal her. It was all for nothing." Wesley took a breath before continuing. "Darla had decided to accept a natural death." He met Buffy's eyes. "She seemed to be attempting to find some small measure of redemption."

"I'd trust that about as far as I could throw her," Buffy muttered.

"Which is pretty far," Cordelia pointed out.

"Well, then I'd trust it about as far as I could throw this building," Buffy corrected herself.

"What does that expression even mean?" Gunn said. "Trust about as far? You don't say how far do you trust me? I-" He noticed Wesley's impatient glare, and shut his mouth with a snap. "I'm just saying."

"Anyway," Cordelia said. "It doesn't matter because Wolfram and Hart stepped in again."

"They incapacitated Angel, and Drusilla turned Darla into a vampire right in front of him," Wesley explained.

"And that's when he really wigged," Cordelia said. "I mean he'd already sort of lost it. But compared to this, he was like the poster child for sanity."

"He tried to stake Darla before she could rise again," Gunn explained. "But both her and Drusilla got away."

"He was determined to catch them, and largely ignored one of Cordelia's visions from the powers that be to look for them," Wesley said, crossing his arms over his chest. He bowed his head. "But when he found them at a gathering of Wolfram and Hart employees, he..." the ex-Watcher looked up, his voice catching on the words.

"He left the lawyers to get slaughtered," Gunn said. Buffy's jaw tightened.

"When we confronted him," Welsey said, picking up the thread again. "When we told him we felt he was on the edge, turning to real darkness, he...fired us."

"No severance package or anything," Cordelia said. "Not that we were getting any benefits or much pay anyway, but you'd think maybe two weeks notice or a bonus, since after all we-"

"Cordelia," Wesley said gently.

"Yeah?" she answered.

"Let's try to focus, shall we?"

"I am focusing," she said. "On my lack of a severence package."

"I'm all caught up, right?" Buffy said impatiently. "So let's get it over with. Take me to him."

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather...think about what you're going to say to him?" Wesley asked, slightly hesitant. "Perhaps run it by us."

"No," Buffy said, standing up. Wesley and Gunn stood beside her for a moment, waiting. "That's it," Buffy said finally. "No, pretty much covers it." She looked at Gunn, "You ready?"

He turned to Wesley, who seemed to be at a loss for words, and waited for some signal. Wesley looked back helplessly, and finally Gunn shrugged. "I guess it's just you and me, blondie."

"And me," Cordelia spoke up, rising from the couch herself. Buffy appraised her with a hard look. "It's not up for debate," Cordelia said.

Buffy headed for the door, and the other two followed, leaving Wesley to watch them, confusion, indecision on his face. He frowned to himself in the silence of Cordelia's empty apartment. A cup of tea slid across the coffee table toward him, and he picked it up absently.

"Thank you, Dennis," he muttered, his eyes still on the door. He wished for a moment that they hadn't called Buffy. Only a second or two, before his concern for Angel overwhelmed the feeling that he was right back at Sunnydale High. Incompetent, inexperienced, and ignored. He took a sip of tea. He wasn't that man anymore. He'd changed. If only it weren't so hard to remember.

Spike entered the warehouse, taking in the group of about fifty demons of all shapes and sizes in the center of the largely empty space. They surged, a mass of noise and excited blood lust, around the pair that fought in the middle of the rough circle. There was a makeshift bar over against one of the walls. A small Gyrostia demon stood behind the bar that had bottles, crushed plastic cups, a few empty bags of blood piled on its uneven surface. Spike slouched over and ordered a bag of O+, plunking down on one of the crates that were the only seats. A few more demons entered, one of them coming over to the bar, the others heading straight for the fight.

Spike nodded at the red scaled demon as it grabbed a cup of something green, and it growled softly in return. It sat down, deliberately turning its back to Spike. He got a good view of the spikes that lined its spine poking through the thin material of its shirt. Spike frowned, slipping into game face. He tapped the thing on its shoulder. It ignored him.

"Excuse me, mate," Spike said, yelling over the noise of the melee a few feet away. The thing looked over its shoulder, its eyes burning gold. A growl still its only response. Spike curled his lip. "Your species not advanced enough for speech?" he asked with mock regret. "They let just anyone into the clubs in LA, don't they. A shame really."

"Don't touch me again, vampire," the demon said, its voice harsh, guttural.

Spike held up his hands in surrender. "I'm not looking for trouble." He paused. "Actually I am, just a different type." The demon was ignoring him again. He deliberately lowered his hand onto the thing's shoulder. It turned its head slowly, its muscles tensing. "You see," Spike said casually. "I'm looking for two vampires. Darla and Drusilla. Just wondered if you've seen them."

The thing didn't answer, instead springing up from its seat, its drink falling to the floor. Its hands closed around Spike's throat, and Spike, unfazed, landed a punch to its kidneys, then slammed his elbow up into the demon's tusked mouth. Its grip on his neck loosened slightly, but didn't fall away. Spike grabbed the demon's elbows, and the two of them twisted to the side, the crowd swallowing them, making room as other demons backed up to watch the new entertainment.

Spike pried the demon's hands from his neck. It responded with a lifted knee that he blocked with his hands. Then its head snapped back as the heel of Spike's hand made hard contact with its chin. It roared, and Spike laughed. It drove him to the ground, and they rolled together, end over end against the concrete. A taloned hand tore into his chest. Spike couldn't stop grinning.

Buffy stood outside the main entrance to the Hyperion. She glanced back at the truck where Gunn and Cordelia were waiting. She'd convinced Cordelia to let her talk to Angel alone, but she was having second thoughts. The familiar butterflies were fluttering drunkenly inside her stomach, and her throat was tight with the thought of him. It had been so long since she'd seen him. Everyday she tried not to think of him. Tried to fade her memory of him until it would no longer hurt her with the sharp lines of its flawed beauty. Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for the doorknob. She wanted so much to see him, everything in her was straining with it, stretched taut. And she wanted so much to never see him again, because each time she did, the ache of what she'd lost grew searing.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. The lights were off in the lobby, leaving the room full of shadows. She stepped inside. There was a faint glow from behind the main desk. She approached it cautiously, her head craning for a glimpse of where he lived now, the darkness of the room hiding the full age of the building in both its grandeur and its disrepair. The lit lamp on the desk shone on an empty expanse of wood. Whatever had been there before was gone now. Cleared out. She turned, at a loss for where to go next. She looked for the door to the basement. Cordelia had mentioned it.

As she stood hesitating, she heard a sudden crash echo through the lobby. She noticed a door to her left, and moved toward it. She turned the knob and the door creaked open, faint light spilling up into the lobby. She descended the wooden stairs quickly on silent feet, her hand on the rough banister. She paused halfway down when she caught sight of him. His back was to her, his tattoo half visible under the white tank top that covered the broad expanse of muscle. He kicked aside one of the barrels that rolled toward him. A slight sheen of sweat covered him, and she saw his demolished punch bag lying on the ground, a small cloud of dust rising in the midst of the barrels it had landed against. She descended another step, and the stair creaked softly. He spun at the sound, and their eyes met, locked. She caught her breath, just staring, unable to think or speak. For a moment, the world was just the two of them again, the way it always had been when they were together. But the brief moment of shock passed. A hard mask settled over his features, his eyes blank, cold. He turned his gaze away, and started across the room without a word or another glance.

"Angel," she said, her brow wrinkling. She reached the bottom of the stairs, and stepped into the room. He ignored her, pulling a sword that was impaled through a table top free of its confinement. He swung it in a broad arc, then drew it parallel to his chest.

"Angel, we have to talk," she said. She approached him with her arms crossed over her chest, her face wary. He continued to move, the sword slashing the air as he practiced a different parry, a different thrust. "You can't just pretend I'm not here," she said, an edge finding its way into her voice. She reached his side, standing just a couple feet away, her eyes on his profile, the way his arm moved, the way the sword cut the air. He didn't even bother to turn his back, for that would have acknowledged her existence. She studied him, hurt and confusion twisting her face. Her jaw firmed, and her hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, holding it immobile. He strained against her.

"Angel, this is serious," she said. "I get that you want to find Darla and Dru. I even halfway get what you did to the lawyers. And if you want to-" He managed to jerk his arm free, and continued to sweep the broadsword through the air.

"I get that you want to protect them," Buffy said, switching gears to reference his friends, knowing he'd understand who she meant. "But you're making a mistake. You're forgetting what's important." There was no response, but she continued. "And you can't do this by yourself."

She gritted her teeth and grabbed for his arm again. "Angel, stop it," she said. His wrist relaxed, and he dropped the sword. It hit the floor with a clang, and she tried to meet his eyes. He avoided her gaze, his eyes locked on something in the distance, something she couldn't see. She released his arm, and he turned away, picking up a mace that was on the floor a few feet away.

"Angel..." her voice broke, the name a plea. She watched his face for some sign, any sign that he'd heard her. That he would answer, that he wanted to. Not even a flicker crossed his features. Her brow contracted, her lungs sucking in a quick hitch of air. She turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.


	3. Part Three

**RELIEF**

**-  
**

**PART THREE**

Buffy burst through the doors of the hotel at a run. She let the door slam behind her, then stopped on the sidewalk, her chest heaving slightly. Her eyes flew to the truck across the street, and she tried to slow her breathing, calm herself. She took a deep breath and smoothed her palms along the legs of her jeans. She closed her eyes, and took one more breath, before walking across the street to the truck. Cordelia leaned against the passenger's door, her arms crossed over her chest.

"So?" she said. "Was he there?"

"Technically, yeah." Buffy said.

"What does that mean, technically?" Cordelia asked.

"He wouldn't even talk to me," Buffy said. "Not even to tell me to leave." She sighed, her boot scuffing the sidewalk. "It was useless. I might as well not have come." She looked up and met Cordelia's eyes. "So you were right."

Cordelia frowned and pushed off the truck. She faced Buffy. "God, pity yourself much?"

"What?" Buffy said, her voice soft with disbelief. "You're attacking me?"

"Oh poor you," Cordelia said. "You tried to talk to him for two minutes, and he wouldn't answer you."

"Are you accusing me of not trying?" Buffy said, her anger growing by the second.

"Well, what the hell did you expect?" Cordelia asked. "We tell you he's LOST it. He's friggin' letting people get massacred. And you think it's going to be easy? You think he's going to be the same as you remember? Or just hear your voice and suddenly be cured?"

"No," Buffy snapped. "I didn't think that at all. But what-" She took a calming breath. "How am I supposed to help him if he won't even look at me, or even acknowledge that I'm in the room with him? I can't just yell at him for days on end while he counts the number of bricks in the wall." She paused. "Or I *could* but I don't see what good it would do."

"You MAKE him listen," Cordelia said. "You do whatever it takes."

Buffy shrugged helplessly. "If he refuses to hear-"

"When you came here ranting about Faith and calling for her blood, he didn't listen to you," Cordelia said. "You didn't just turn tail then."

"I didn't turn tail now," Buffy snapped. "I just...left the room."

"You gave up," Cordelia said.

Buffy opened her mouth to defend herself, then paused, thinking about it for a moment. Graduation. He had refused to drink from her to save himself, and she'd beaten him until he'd given in. Christmas. He'd wanted to kill himself, and she'd followed him up on that hill, begged him not to, refused to leave him even when they'd reached a standstill. Why was this different? Or maybe it wasn't this. Maybe it was her. When had she given up? With Riley? Or before. When she'd let Angel leave her? She met Cordelia's eyes, troubled.

"For God's sake," the other woman said. "Just go back in there." She stared at Buffy for a long moment. "Look. You know I'm not into this whole, Buffy and Angel circle of doom and pain that you guys have going. But if anyone can MAKE him listen. It's you." She paused, then said more softly. "And if you can't do it. Then he's lost. And there's no way to tell when, or if, he'll ever find his way back."

Buffy exhaled sharply. "Tell Gunn I'm going back in. This could...take a while." She glanced at the truck. "You guys should go. I'll call when it's over."

Cordelia arched an eyebrow.

"Hey. This was your idea. If you want to sit in the truck all night..."

Cordelia shook her hair back. "You'll need the number at my place." She pulled open the door and retrieved a small silver handbag. Gunn watched as she scribbled down the number on a scrap of paper.

"You sure this is a good idea?" he said.

"No," Cordelia answered flatly.

"All right then," he said and focused his eyes on the windshield.

She handed the number to Buffy. Buffy shoved it in her pocket and turned back toward the hotel. She started across the street. "Hey," Cordelia called. Buffy glanced back. "Good luck."

Buffy smiled grimly, and left them behind. She crossed the street at a trot and entered the hotel with purpose. Her hands curled into fists at her sides as she descended the stairs. She tried to think of the words to say, tension and anger beginning to heat her as the way he'd treated her sank in. Her jaw clenched. She reached the basement, wound tight, on edge. Almost eager to confront him again, to make him see her, hear her.

He wasn't there.

She spun in the empty room, at a loss again. She ran back up the stairs, and paused in the lobby. Which room had Cordelia said was his? She took the staircase two steps at a time.

The door to his room was open. She burst inside, and again was faced with emptiness. She faced his chair, the reading lamp turned off. She spun and faced the empty coat rack. Empty. She swore under her breath and darted back down the staircase, across the lobby, her heels echoing in the darkness, and down into the basement again. She saw now that the sword was also missing, the mace. She looked at the trap door in the bare floor. He'd gone down into the sewers. She spared half a thought to a call telling the others where she was going, but she'd already lifted the door, she was already climbing the ladder into the underground.

Her feet touched down on concrete, the tunnel stretching endless in either direction. There was no real hint at which way he'd gone. She turned left.

*

Spike held a rag to his bleeding nose, his head tipped back. The red-scaled demon sat on a crate across from him, one of his tusks chipped, a stream of black-purple blood oozing from a cut across his cheek. The two of them laughed, bending over with the force of their amusement. Spike tossed the rag away with a slight wince. "The look on your face when I caught you in the knees," the demon said shaking his head.

Spike cackled. "Wish I had a mirror." He slipped off his crate, and caught himself with his hand before he hit the ground, laughing even harder. "Mirror," he giggled to himself. The demon grinned and handed Spike a bag of blood. Spike finished the last of the whiskey he held, before propping his head up on the bar and staring at the bag of blood, bleary-eyed.

"These girls of yours," the demon said. "Darla and Drusilla." His light gold eyes narrowed. "I've heard of them. Everyone's talking."

"Been here yet?" Spike asked, the words slightly slurred.

The thing shook its head, taking a pull off the beer it held in its talons. "Naw, I'd have heard if they had."

"You think they'll be here, to show up here?" Spike said, sinking his teeth into the blood bag. He yawned, spilling blood across the floor, then sank his teeth back into the bag.

"Not tonight," the thing said. "But I'd lay odds they'll be here before they're done."

Spike drained the bag with a slurp and tossed it aside. "I'll be back tomorrow then," Spike said. "Maybe I'll see you. It was nice meeting-" He started to stand up, lost his balance and sat back down with a thump.

"You got a place to stay?" the demon asked.

Spike laughed. "A good place too," he said. "The backseat's real roomy." He stood up again, this time keeping his balance. The demon stood up with him, throwing his arm around Spike's waist, and supporting him when he tripped.

"Why don't you just come to my place?" he said. "Hang out. It's not much, but I've got room. And it's not like you'll be doing anything but sleeping off the hangover you're gonna have today."

Spike smiled and patted the thing on its scaly head. "Yeah, okay, Sammy."

They staggered toward the door, leaning on each other. "That thing you did with the ducking and the kicking," Sammy said, touching his sore chest with a chuckle. "You'll have to teach me that one."

"How 'bout that spin move you did?" Spike said. "How'd you keep your balance on that one?" He squinted against the spinning of the room.

"Luck," the demon said. They laughed, and stumbled out into the waning night.

*

Buffy rubbed at her face with a tired hand. She'd been walked the sewer for several hours, and she'd seen nothing bigger than a few rats scurrying along the side of the tunnel. She knew the sun had risen on the surface, and she had yet to see any sign of Angel. She wondered, not for the first time, if she should have gone the other way, or turned back before now. But she was committed to the turn she'd taken. If she allowed the doubts to undermine her resolve... She sighed. She'd had no sleep. And it looked like she wasn't going to get any. She had no way to track Angel. And she was wandering aimlessly in a strange sewer system. If by some miracle she did find him, he obviously had no desire to see or talk to her.

"This is all going so well," she muttered to herself. "I don't see how it could be going any better."

She heard the dim echo of what sounded like footsteps, the chatter of voices in the distance. The sounds grew louder with a sudden yell. Silence. The bright clang of metal on concrete. She ran down the tunnel toward the noise, taking another turn. The noises faded. She chased the silence.

*  
She reached a junction where several tunnels converged, its concrete walls plain, unmarked. There were exposed pipes running near the ceiling, a series of drains and grates along one cement wall. It was empty. Her eyes caught on the sword at the lip of one of the tunnels. It was Angel's broadsword, stained with blood. She ran to it, picked it up, her fingers catching on the bright sticky redness smeared along the blade. Taking a deep breath, she entered the tunnel, her gaze sweeping the curved walls. She knelt beside a heap of discarded cloth that was crumpled against the side of the tunnel. The sword tumbled from her hand, and she grabbed the cloth, stood up with it. It fell into the long lines of his familiar black coat. She brought it to her face, inhaled. It still smelled of him. Her fingers ran over the slight roughness of the wool. She opened her eyes, her fingers clenching once, digging into the fabric. Kneeling again, she left it where he'd tossed it, laying it down on the concrete. She picked up the sword. It was too big for her, but she could manage. She tighted her grip on the hilt, sure now she was going the right way. That she was not far behind him. She followed at an almost run.


	4. Part Four

**Relief**

**-  
PART FOUR**

Cordelia paced the length of her living room. She shot an angry look at Wesley, sitting on the sofa, but he paid it no mind. He knew he wasn't the one she was angry with. She exhaled sharply, and turned a pointed glare to the phone.

"What is she DOING over there?" she finally snapped. "It's been HOURS."

Gunn emerged from the kitchen, a slapped together roast beef sandwich in his hand. He talked through a mouthful. "Hey, you were the one who-"

"Whatever," Cordelia said, cutting him off. He rolled his eyes and took a large bite. "She should have called by now." The anger in her eyes softened briefly to worry. "What if something happened?" she said. "Dru and Darla are still out there. What if-"

Wesley met Cordelia's eyes. "Perhaps in this case we should assume no news is good news. Surely she would have called if there was a problem."

"Maybe," Cordelia said doubtfully.

"We have no reason to believe they would attack Angel openly in the hotel," Wesley said, raising a calming hand. "And even if they knew Buffy was here, which they couldn't," he quickly added, "they wouldn't go after her without some sort of plan or help." He shook his head. "They haven't had time to make any plans yet."

Cordelia snorted. "Is this supposed to be comforting? The fact that they're going to attack as soon as they figure out a plan?" She curled her lip. "You need some serious work in the comforting speech department."

Wesley bowed his head, and rubbed at his forehead where his pulse was beginning to pound painfully. "My point was, I'm sure that neither Buffy nor Angel is in any immediate danger. The hotel is probably the safest place they could be right now."

"Yeah, unless you count the danger they are to each other," Cordelia put in. "That girl is a menace."

"What is it with you and her?" Gunn asked, his sandwich finished. He leaned against the wall, one knee bent, one foot flat against the surface.

"Foot," Cordelia said. He sighed but dropped the foot. She shrugged. "There is no it with me and her," she said. "She's just not my favorite person in the world. It's always," she pitched her voice higher, "I'm the Chosen One, all others are here to serve me." Her voice lowered. "And that attitude doesn't work for me. I'm not here to serve anyone." She looked up briefly. "Except The Powers. Kinda."

Gunn shrugged. "She seemed okay to me. Maybe a little quiet. A little grumpy even. But it was four o'clock in the morning. And I think pretty much anyone would be a little grumpy at that hour."

Cordelia shook her head. "No. Look at what she's doing right now," she said. "I mean, it's just as bad as how Angel's been treating us. She tells us she's going to call. But then she completely leaves us in the dark. It's like, herself, or her mission, or whatever, is all she thinks about. And the little people, like us, can just go screw themselves." Cordelia pursed her lips. "Well, I'm not little people. And I don't like being left in the dark." She glanced over at Wesley. "You know the Scooby Gang is all well and good when she needs help, but in the end, it's always about her."

Wesley looked up, and spoke softly. "There are some things she must do alone."

Cordelia frowned. "Don't tell me you're making excuses for her. She treated you worse than anyone."

Wesley grimaced. "Yes, well, she did have some cause."

"Right," Cordelia snorted. "Because it's your fault you had no experience and didn't know exactly how to deal with-"

"Cordelia," Wesley said with a sigh. "I'd really rather not dredge up the past."

"Fine," Cordelia said. "All I'm saying is that just because she has a sacred destiny, doesn't mean she should blow us off." She sighed, her glance flying to the phone again. "Are you sure the ringer's on?"

"I checked it twice," Gunn said. "The phone is fine."

"Maybe we should go back to the hotel," Cordelia said. "Just to check on them. "

"Maybe we should get some sleep," Wesley suggested. "I'm sure all of us could use it."

"That gets my vote," Gunn said.

"You can take my bed," Cordelia offered. "I'm gonna stay up a little while longer." Wesley gave her a concerned look. "Don't even worry," she said. "I just had too much coffee earlier. I couldn't sleep if I wanted to." He nodded, but she could see the knowing glint in his eyes. She sneered at him. "Oh, shut up and go to sleep. I'll wake you if the Chosen One chooses to clue us in."

Buffy sank down into a crouch, her back against the cool concrete of another junction point. The sword dropped from her hand, and she squeezed the sides of her forehead with her fingers. She closed her eyes, then jerked them open them as weariness took hold all too easily, leading her toward sleep. She sighed and turned her head from one side to the other, taking in the five tunnels that converged on this point. She'd made it this far on luck and intuition, but there was no way to judge which of these paths Angel had taken. She could eliminate all but two of the tunnels based on the general direction he'd been heading. But the remaining two seemed to head off the same way, nearly parallel to each other. She stood up, her body protesting the movement of sore muscles, the sword hanging listless from a loose grip.

She should have caught up to him by now. The better part of the day was gone, and the closest she'd gotten was a dead lizard looking demon with a humpback. Just another corpse in the trail of destruction Angel was leaving. She shook her head. No use thinking about it. She was going to have to turn back. He'd return to the hotel eventually.

She heard a faint splashing noise, and her ears perked, her head turning quickly toward the sound. She stepped into the tunnel on the right, and the splashing noise echoed through the tube. It sounded close, but she knew that could be a trick of the acoustics. Either way, it didn't matter. She knew which way to go. She hurried toward the noise with a sense of renewed purpose.

It was farther than it sounded, but eventually she reached the source of the noise. A nasty looking green-skinned, red-eyed demon dressed in clothes that screamed sleazy was hanging upside down. His feet were secured to a piece of rope hitched over a large pipe. His hands were tied. And his head dangled close to a pool of rancid water. Her nose wrinkled at the smell.

"Hey," he said. "Hey girl, could you give me a hand here?"

Her eyes narrowed. She brought the bloodstained sword up, her hands tight around the hilt. The thing's eyes widened, and it started to stammer, jerking around frantically on its rope like a fish on a hook.

"Whoa! Hey, hey. None of that," he said. "No weapons. We don't need weapons. I ain't gonna hurt nothing. Everybody knows Merl's not a bad guy. I get along with everybody. You just ask anyone." She looked at him doubtfully. "Hey," he said, changing his tack, his voice fast, desperate. "You want information?" he said. "I got it. I can tell you whatever you need to know. You name it. No charge. No-"

Buffy's eyebrow quirked as his groveling convinced her he was no danger. "Okay," she said impatiently. "I'm not going to hurt you." The thing that called itself Merl visibly relaxed. "As long as you tell me two things."

"Right," he said. "Yeah, whatever you want."

"Who did this to you?" she asked. "And what did you tell him?"

"Oh," Merl said. "Oh, I don't know if I can say. He might kill me, you know. He's not like he used to be, with those humans of his paying me good money. He just--" Buffy raised the sword, a sharp glint in her eye. "Or on the other hand, he probably won't mind," he said quickly. "So maybe you know the guy; his name's Angel. Vampire with a-"

"-a soul," Buffy finished. "Yeah I know."

"I was gonna say bad attitude," Merl said, "but that soul thing works too."

"And what did you tell him?" Buffy asked. "Where is he going?" Merl twitched, conflicted. He glanced at Buffy's sword. She smiled, a hard flash of teeth. "Look, Angel and I go way back. He won't mind if you tell me. And besides, how long do you think it'll be before anyone else hears you. I can cut you down right now." Her eyes narrowed. "Or I can just cut you."

"Ahhh, geez," Merl said. "He's been looking for these vampires. Darsilla? Druella? They're planning something big. Getting some demons together. I just told him an address."

"And?" Buffy said.

"Demon fight club," he said reluctantly. "La Cienega and Washington. That's all I said. That's all I know..." Buffy's arm swung and the sword slashed through the air toward him, shiny, sharp. Merl half-squealed in fright. "Honest!" he said, and the sword cut through the rope tying his hands. Buffy swung again, and the blade bit through the rope from which he hung. He tumbled into the water, sputtering and splashing. Buffy headed down the tunnel, looking for a ladder out of the sewer. For the first time since she'd left Sunnydale, she knew exactly where she was going.

A cab would have been easier. Especially since she wasn't highly excited about walking after trudging through the sewers for hours. But explaining the bloody sword was something she was even less excited about. She'd stopped to wipe it clean on a rare patch of grass, but that barely dented the caked on rust of now dried blood. When she'd emerged from the sewer, it had only taken a few seconds to orient herself. She'd been about ten blocks from the address, so she made her way to the club on foot.

Of course, the way her luck was going, it was only fitting that when she got there the place was closed. It was a shabby neighborhood, the building set on a glorified alley. She jerked at the doors, but they seemed to be padlocked several times on the inside. She could have broken in, but what would have been the point if there was no one inside. Her stomach growled angrily, and after a moment's thought she headed toward a hamburger place she'd seen a few blocks back. Sunset was still an hour away, and dinner sounded like the best way to kill the time.

Eyes turned to her as she walked into the restaurant, and she glanced down at the sword with a grimace. Someone was going to call the cops on her. She should have just left it in the sewers. But for some reason it had felt right to bring it. She rolled her eyes, and ordered her hamburger to go. Sitting in an alley was just as good as at a table in an air conditioned- Oh who was she kidding? While she waited for her order, she took a quick trip to the bathroom, cleaned the blood from the sword as best she could with a wet paper towel, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her hair hung limp. Her eyes were tired, dark circles bruising the skin underneath, her face pale. She wondered what she'd look like to him. Quickly, she banished the thought, and splashed some water on her face, the cold bracing her. She wiped her face with her sleeve before exiting the bathroom.

She grabbed her food on the way out, and headed for an empty bus bench. The sword, she stashed under the bench where it wasn't quite so noticeable. The food was greasy, slightly cold, but it seemed delicious, and it stopped her stomach's rumblings. Which was the important thing.

When she was done with her dinner, she tossed the wrappers into a nearby trashcan. Her eyes closed briefly, and she drifted for a few minutes before she jerked awake again. She noticed a pay phone a block down, and exhaled sharply. She dragged herself up, considering leaving the heavy weight of the sword behind, before bending down to pull it off the ground.

At the phone, she put in her change and dialed Cordelia's number.

Cordelia jerked violently as the phone jangled. She looked around in sleep-addled confusion. She was sitting in an armchair. Her neck sore. Her eyes heavy. She'd drifted off. Wesley looked up blearily from his place on the couch.

The ringing had stopped. Cordelia clutched at her hair, still trying to figure out what was going on, only certain that she had needed to take that call. She frowned.

Her bedroom door opened, and Gunn stepped out, yawning, a phone in hand. He extended it to her, and she sprang up. Dennis took it from Gunn's hand, and zipped it over to hers. She smiled her thanks and spoke into the phone.

"Hello?"

"Yeah," Buffy said. "It's me."

"Finally!" Cordelia said. "What happened with Angel? It took you long enough!

There was a heavy sigh from Buffy's end. "I've been chasing him all day," she said. "He went down into the sewers while we were talking before, and I haven't seen him since."

"There's miles of those things, how could you possibly ever find-" Cordelia asked.

"Well," Buffy said. "I'm pretty sure I have. I know where he's going, and I'm two blocks away."

"Do you want us to come there?" Cordelia said. "Back you up? Or even give you a ride back?"

There was a pause in which Cordelia could almost see the Slayer shaking her head. "No," she said. "I still don't know how this is going to turn out. And there's nothing you can do."

"Of course not," Cordelia said, her voice resigned and slightly sarcastic.

"I'll check back with you later," Buffy said. "Just didn't want you to worry."

"Right," Cordelia said, her voice dry. "Why would we?"

"Anyway," Buffy said. "Bye."

"Bye," Cordelia said to the dial tone. She looked over at Wesley and shook the receiver at him. "You just wait. As soon as she needs us she'll be calling for help. Pick me up, research this, get me that. And she'll forget all about us again the minute we finish running her errands."

Wesley smiled tightly. "At least she hasn't cut us out of the loop entirely," he pointed out.

"Yeah, cause we're oh so grateful for the scraps." She met Gunn's eyes, and sighed. "I guess we are grateful. Pity the patheticness that is us."

The sun was setting, and Buffy paced outside the club. Where was everyone? Why hadn't they opened yet? She looked down suddenly at her sword and snorted. Here she was patrolling the door like a demented sentry and wondering why no one was trying to get past her.

"Okay," she muttered. "Maybe I should find a hiding place instead of standing underneath the neon sign that says, Here's the Slayer." But she needed to keep an eye on the door. She looked up. The building on the other side of the dingy alley had a flat roof. She tossed the sword up, and it landed on the roof with a heavy clunk. She rolled her head from side to side, then jumped up, grabbing hold of the exposed pipe that ran the length of the club. She swung, placed her feet briefly on the edge of the club's roof, and launched herself up to the roof of the other building. She landed lightly next to the sword and took in her surroundings. This would work. She could see anyone coming or going.

She settled in for more waiting, the sword resting lengthwise on her bent knees. Sure enough, the first dark shape sidled toward the building with wary steps. It slipped inside with a backwards look. After the first, there was a fairly steady stream of demons that approached the club. Some driving up, most walking. No Angel. Her shoulders sagged, and she scrubbed her face with her hand. Wishing, not for the first time, that she was in her nice soft bed.

She heard a metallic scrape, and saw the lid come off a sewer entrance about a block or so down from her vantage point. She stood up, grabbed the sword in a tighter grip, and took a running start at the edge of the building. She leapt to the next rooftop, crossed it and jumped once more, now level with the figure that had crept from the sewer. He wore a grey hooded sweatshirt. She couldn't see his face, but she launched herself from the rooftop and tackled him. The sword spun off into the dark.

They tumbled to the ground, a tangle of limbs behind the edge of a warehouse. A deep growl rumbled from his throat. She raised her head when the dust settled, and looked up into Angel's golden eyes. His lips pulled back from fangs, his true face exposed. He met her gaze for a moment, and she felt herself flush with heat. She was suddenly very aware of the length of her body pressed tight against the length of his. His lips were close, and her eyes settled on them. She bit her own lip without realizing what she did, shifting slightly against him.

Then he pushed her away, and scooted backwards in the dirt. He stood up, and she scrambled up with him. "Angel," she said. He started to walk away, and she grabbed his arm in a painfully tight grip. "I'm not going to let you do this."

He didn't respond, although he reached for her fingers with his free hand and tried to pry them away. She held on, grabbing for his other hand. He evaded her grab, and jerked at his arm, nearly breaking her hold. "Stop it!" she said. "I just want to talk to you."

He was starting to look frustrated now, which she supposed was an improvement on the utter blankness of earlier. "Why won't you-" she started.

"You're in my way," he growled. Her eyes narrowed, although she was relieved he'd even spoken. Argument, anger she could handle. It was the numb nothingness that left her confused and frozen.

"I know," she answered flippantly. "That's kind of the point."

He finally succeeded in yanking his arm free, and turned away, heading toward the club at a quick run. Buffy caught up, and grabbed his arm, spinning him around to face her. She stood in his way. "I don't think so," she said. "Unless you want to go into that club with me." She smiled without joy. "And believe me when I say, I'm not afraid to make a scene."

He took a quick step to the left, trying to pass her, and her fist shot out, laying him flat with a crushing blow to the temple. He fell, sprawled against the ground. "You're letting them get away," he said, rising painfully to a crouch. "Don't you see-" His shoulders sagged, defeated. "Don't you see how important this is?" he asked.

"I see you losing your way," she answered.

"And you came to set me back on the true path?" Angel said, his voice icy. "You don't know anything about this, about me, about-"

"Who's fault is that?" Buffy said, her voice trembling slightly with the force of her anger. "You didn't even tell me you'd moved your offices. You didn't tell me about Darla. About Dru. You've cut me out of your life as completely as you possibly-"

"You haven't exactly kept in touch either," Angel said, with a snort of disbelief. He shook his head. "I'm sorry if I didn't want to hear about how wonderful everything is with your boyfriend, and your family, and your perfect-"

"My mother almost died!" Buffy said, her voice almost a scream. "Riley's gone!" She gritted her teeth against the tears that started behind her eyes. "There's a God, a real, live GOD, after my sister. I'm exhausted. Every day is like another weight on my shoulders. My life is so far from perfect, it's not even funny."

His eyes softened briefly, his hand reaching slightly toward her, his anger and frustration stripped away for a moment to reveal the pang of shocked sympathy her words called up in him. His fingers brushed her knee, then curled in on themselves. He drew back, the mask settling over his features again. "Not my problem," he said, his voice harsh. He rose to his feet.

Buffy's mouth hardened, and she dashed at the tears gathering in her eyes. "I know what you're doing," she said. "And it's not going to work."

"What am I doing?" Angel asked.

"You're trying to drive me away," she said. "So you can continue your self-destructive crusade or your vendetta or whatever this is."

"What does it matter to you?" Angel said. "It's not your concern."

"You concern me," Buffy said.

"I'm not doing anything wrong," Angel argued. "Unless all of sudden you think taking out the bad guys is wrong."

She frowned at him, and took a step closer. He backed away from her, hiding them behind the side of another building. "It's not the taking out bad guys that has everyone worried," she said. "It's how you're doing it." She took another step, and this time he held his ground. "I heard what you did to the lawyers."

"I'll do worse the next chance I have," Angel said. "They deserved to die." He turned his head in the direction of the fight club.

"But that's the point," Buffy said. "You don't get to decide."

He turned his gaze on her, his eyes meeting hers, sending a shiver up her spine at the empty hatred she saw there. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You haven't seen what they've done."

"They're still human," Buffy started.

"Who cares!" Angel spat. "Wolfram and Hart has done more evil in this city than all the demons combined. They-"

"That doesn't give you the right-" Buffy started.

Angel grabbed her by the arms, his grip bruising. "You. Don't. Know," he spit the words into her face, but she refused to flinch. "You can't know," he said. "And I won't let you stop me." He shook her once. "This is what I have to do. I have to destroy them, and nothing is going to get in my way."

"Let. Go. Of. Me," she said, her eyes narrowed. He let her go with a shove. She stumbled, but regained her footing and placed her hand on his chest to keep him from moving. "You're here to help the helpless," she said. "Save souls. Not judge them. Not destroy all evil."

He turned away from her. "I won't let you stop me."

"And I won't let you do this to yourself," Buffy said. "If you want to kill Darla and Drusilla? More power to you. I'll help you do it. If you want to fight Wolfram and Hart? Fine. Again, I'm on your side. But if you're going to turn your back on your mission-"

"I'm fighting a war," Angel said. "I'm-"

"Then you're going to have to fight it with me," Buffy said. He turned to look at her, his head cocked. "I'm not leaving." She met his eyes with cold blue ice. "You may be able to shut out your friends. But I won't let you do that to me." She stepped forward and pushed his chest, hard. "If you try to lose me, I'll tail you. And everywhere you go, I'll find you. I'll be there."

His face twisted for a moment, his eyes darkening, his mouth crumpling. He took an unneeded breath and restored the hard surface. "I can't let you do that," he said. "I can't let you get in my-"

"You're not going to LET me do anything," Buffy said. "You can't tell me what to do. And you can't make me leave."

"What about your own mission?" he asked, his tongue flicking against fangs. "What about Sunnydale and your family? Are you just going to abandon them?"

"I'm not giving up on you," Buffy said. "Not this time."

"Why can't you understand," he said. "I don't want you here. I don't need you."

She spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not leaving."

Spike stood in the crushing mob as it surged around the demon and vampire fighting in its center. He was distracted, not concentrating on the fight. His eyes flicked to the door. The crowd stumbled forward, and he moved with it, his concentration briefly on the fight as yells of triumph surrounded him. His eyes darted back to the door, and he stopped moving, unaware of the demon that banged into him from behind.

Darla strutted into the room, her chin high, her eyebrow lifted into familiar arches of slightly snooty amusement. Dru strolled in her wake. Her dark hair hung loose, spilling over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were distant like they so often were, seeing things that existed for no one else. Her slender fingers drooped on her wrists. A pink turtleneck hugged her torso, and Spike would have smiled if he weren't frozen by the sight of her, a hundred points of fire crawling under his skin. The rest of the crowd had yet to notice them, as the fight ended with the vampire tapping the ground in defeat. Darla began to clap sarcastically, moving with Dru through the crowd. Spike shifted with it, lost in the mob as it parted around them. Darla spoke in her soft baby-doll voice, and Spike shuddered once, remembering a time long past.

"Wow. That was something," she said, her voice mocking. "But violence without victims... See, that's where you lose me."

"Who the hell are you?" the demon who'd just won the fight asked, still standing in the cleared space in the middle of the crowd.

Darla barely spared him a glance. "My name's Darla and this is Drusilla. We're new in town though some of you know us by reputation." She smiled cheerfully.

"I never heard of you before," the demon spat, his voice rough.

Drusilla stood behind him, her hands on his ears. With a quick jerk and the wet rip of skin, his ears came off in her hands. He screamed, dropping like a stone, his claws raised to cover the bloody wounds on his head. Dru dropped the ears absently and they fell to the floor with a gentle plop, landing near his head.

"Now you never will," Darla said. Spike swallowed a chuckle. She turned her gaze on the demons surrounding her, eyes sweeping the crowd. "I trust we have everyone's attention?" Her pretty mouth turned up in a thin smile. "Good. We've come with a little proposition." She was on a roll now, strolling in the middle of the crowd, her voice casual, her golden hair almost glowing in the dank room. "Me and my girl, we're not just the new thing in town, we're the only thing in town. And we're in the market for some..." She paused theatrically. "Well, one doesn't really want to use the term muscular slaves..." She smiled flirtatiously. "Actually, one does." Her tone grew serious again. "Unfortunately for most, we're only looking for the best. Those creatures who not only excel at devastation, but revel in it. Our crusade is one of malevolent joy."

A tall, slimy demon moved in front of Spike, blocking his view. Spike slipped through the crowd, staying out of sight, finding a place directly behind Dru. He saw her shoulders hitch, a soft gasp hissing from her throat.

"Eyes like needles," she said, her voice high, trembling. Spike inhaled sharply, his fists clenching at his sides.

"Dru?" Darla said, turning briefly to the other vampire. "I'm working here?"

"He sees me," Dru said, her eyes wide, her hands weaving a graceful pattern in the air. She spun, her eyes fluttering shut, then open. "Sees inside me." She shivered suddenly, hunching in on herself. "It's cold. Cold metal inside."

"Stop it!" Darla said, annoyed.

"He's watching me." Dru shivered again, this time in pleasure, stretching, her back arching. "He's watching right now." Her eyes swept the crowd, searching. Spike slipped behind a larger demon, peering at her, drinking her in.

Darla frowned at Dru, her jaw clenching in impatience. "I don't suppose this could wait until we finish what we came for."

Dru giggled, low, deep. "He's angry with me. He remembers-"

Darla spun around, her voice high, embarrassed by the other vampire's ranting, angry that she'd lost control. "Shut up, Drusilla!"

Dru curled in on herself, humming very softly under her breath. Darla shook away the distraction and hurriedly finished her spiel, her concentration broken. "Now, as I was saying, if you think you have what it takes to join us, auditions are tonight. Here." She pulled a small white business card from her cleavage and held it up. "At this address. Winners will have the opportunity to foment mass-destruction, losers will be gutted and left for dead." She dropped the card on the floor and turned away. She grabbed Drusilla's arm and pulled her toward the door. Dru moaned softly, turning back toward the crowd. "Come on," Darla said, hustling her out of the room.

Spike broke away from the crowd and followed. He stood in the door, watching them walk down the alley toward the street. He hesitated, suddenly unsure. Dru shifted again in Darla's grasp, her face turned toward him for a moment. So pale. Her eyes two pools of darkness in the white. He hurried toward them.

Darla stopped when she heard footsteps behind her. "No tryouts until later tonight," she snapped, flipping a look over her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she recognized his face despite the change in hair, clothes. Her eyebrows contracted and he knew she trusted him about as little as he trusted her.

"You girls need a lift?" Spike asked, carefully keeping his voice light.

"My Spike," Drusilla breathed, her eyes glittering fever-bright.

"That's right, love," he said with a grin. "I'm back."

Angel turned his head toward the club, then looked at Buffy again. "I can't waste any more time," he said. "This is my best lead." He pushed past her and hurried toward the club, pulling the sweatshirt's hood up over his head. A black DeSoto roared out of the parking lot, and he paused, an odd feeling of déjà vu washing over him. He dismissed it, and entered the club, Buffy catching up to him at the door. He ignored her, and approached the bartender.

"Have you seen a pair of vampires?" he asked. "Women. Darla and Drusilla?"

"Just missed 'em," the demon said, scraping some of the empty cups and bottles into a large trash bag. "Took a lot of the crowd with 'em too. Some kind of tryouts tonight."

"Do you know where?" Buffy asked. The bartender gave the small blonde girl a suspicious look, and Angel shot her an annoyed glare. She shook off Angel's stare, and raised her eyebrows at the bartender. "Just answer the question," she said. He took another look at the hard set of her jaw, then noticed the sword she'd retrieved from the alley.

"Don't know," he answered. "The ones that was interested took the address with 'em. I didn't get a look at it."

Angel grabbed Buffy's shoulder and hustled her out of the bar. Outside, he turned on her. "You couldn't just let me do what I had to do," he said. "You-"

"If you hadn't refused to tell me what was going on back at the hotel-" she started.

"Stop it," Angel interrupted. "Just stop it. They're gone. It's too late."

"Maybe there's another way," Buffy said.

"No," Angel said flatly.

"God, could you have a little faith?" Buffy asked. He started for the sewer entrance. "Let me help you find them," she said. She touched his back as he bent to lift the manhole cover. "I know we can find them." His back twitched, trembling under her hand, then he flipped the cover up and dropped down into the tunnels. With a sigh, she dropped down after him.


	5. Part Five

**RELIEF**

**-  
PART FIVE**

Buffy followed Angel for a while in silence, her eyes absently resting on the expanse of his back, the stiff set of his shoulders. She decided finally that she was making it too easy for him.

"Where are we going?"

He continued to walk, fast, determined, in silence.

She heaved a loud sigh. "Angel, what is the point?" she said. "Why are you doing this? How is giving me the silent treatment possibly going to help you destroy Wolfram and Hart or Darla and Dru or anyone?" She wasn't surprised when he refused to answer. "And for that matter...since when am I in your way? Or a burden?" She frowned. "In case you haven't noticed. Still the Slayer over here. Still capable of kicking your ass, much less the wonder twins, one of which we practically killed together the first time."

"I killed her," Angel muttered.

"For me," Buffy said. He didn't answer, and she kicked herself for going too far, driving him back into his antisocial shell. She touched his arm gently, then held him, her grip not a threat but a question. He stopped, his head bowed. "Angel, please," she said. "At least tell me why. If you're going to do this, you have to explain it to me. You owe me that much."

Angel's jaw clenched, his eyes on the ground. "I don't owe-" He cut himself off and looked up, his gaze colliding with hers. "Can't you just trust me?" he said. "Trust that I have reasons for what I'm doing. Trust me to do the right thing?"

Buffy searched his face, her fingers inching up to touch his cheek, trace the line of his jaw. He tensed, trembling between the need to pull back and the need to stay. "I trust you with my life," she said. "But not with your own." Her voice grew hard, but her fingers on his arm, on his neck were gentle. "I know you have reasons," she said. "I'm asking you to share them. That's all I asked for."

His eyes rose, his gaze on the curve of the pipe above. "The only way to beat them...Dru and Darla. Wolfram and Hart. Evil. Is to fight them on their own level." His voice was dull, dark, carefully empty. "I can't be tied down by emotions, by conscience, by rules and codes. It's about results," he recited. "And I'll do anything to stop them. Whatever I have to do." His eyes traveled to her hand on his arm. "I can't take you where I'm going. And I can't let them win because you or anyone else tells me I'm fighting them the wrong way. I'm fighting them the way they have to be fought." He softly pulled his arm from her grasp, took a step back. He turned and started down the tunnel again.

"So this is you doing anything to stop them?" she snorted. "Refusing to let me help. I'm a great weapon to have on your side," she said. "If you were really willing to do anything to win, you'd be willing to recognize that."

"You'll only be in the way," Angel said.

"Says you," Buffy snapped.

"You were in my way tonight," Angel pointed out in a monotone.

"We can still find them." She motioned down the tunnel. "We just go back to the hotel. Call Cordelia and Wesley. I'm sure they have resources that-"

"You can call whoever you want," Angel said, cutting her off.

"Yeah," Buffy said. "I can do pretty much anything I want," she smiled sweetly. "Including follow you around until this is settled."

She detected a quick sag of his shoulders. A slight drooping of his head. And kept the smile on her face long after it had grown brittle.

*

In Spike's car, Darla took a long look at the vampire once known as William the Bloody. Or Will. Or idiot boy. She shot a grim glare at Drusilla, who was sitting behind Spike in the backseat, crooning a short melody to herself. Her fingertips twisted and spun through the air behind his head, descending for brief slipping touches to his hair like a bee brushing against a pollen laden flower. They were bad enough separate, wild, uncontrollable, impulsive. But together... Her frown deepened. True. She wanted to bring death to this town, turn it upside down. And the two of them were masters of destruction, able to revel in it as few could. But she wanted more than chaos. She wanted power. Control. And it was impossible to keep these two in check for long. Sooner or later they would screw things up for her. If she let them.

Dru turned to her, eyes blank, lips trembling; and Darla hid all her thoughts behind a smile.

"Isn't it beautiful, grandmother?" Drusilla asked, her voice soft, whispery. "A family again." Her eyes flickered briefly with dissatisfaction. "But we haven't got our daddy," she said.

Darla's smile faltered, but did not fall. "Angel won't forget us," she said. "We'll give him something to remember. Before we're done, this whole city will remember us." Dru laughed, deep, throaty, her eyes going blank again, settling on something in the distance.

"So?" Darla directed her voice at Spike. "What are you doing in town?"

"Followed the Slayer," Spike said. Darla flinched, her smile disappearing. Dru hissed through her teeth.

"What is she doing here?" Darla asked.

"I'll give you one guess," Spike answered.

"That little bitch," Darla seethed, her thoughts flying to the last time she'd seen the young blonde Slayer. Right before Angel had rammed an arrow through her heart. She owed that overly perky cheerleader a lesson. Preferably involving a loss of limbs and a hideous, lingering death.

"Slayer," Dru keened. Her fingers danced toward Spike's head again. They settled against his skull, her nails raking through his hair. She shivered, her hand clenching around the dyed blonde locks. Spike winced. "She's still inside," she said, her voice high, shaking. "She's inside my Spike, like a worm, she brings the rot. Brings it deep." Her hand jerked closed on a handful of hair, and Spike yelped.

"Hey," he said. "Watch out now, Dru. Don't distract the driver. Unless you want me to wreck the car."

She wasn't listening, but she jerked her hand back as if she'd been burned. She keened, a half crying whine, a trembling moan of distress.

"What is it, Dru?" Spike asked, glancing reflexively in the empty rearview mirror. "What's hurt you, baby?"

"It's cold," she said, bobbing and leaning, her hands curled into claws near her face. "It shines in the dark. I can see it. Cold steel. Working. Always working."

"Pull over here," Darla said, pointing to the neon sign of a bar. "I want to get a bite before the auditions."

Spike pulled over, and turned to look at Dru. He touched her chin, pushing her head up, meeting her eyes with his. "What are you on about, Dru?"

"Poor Spike," she whimpered. "My poor Spike. Trapped. Muzzled like a bad dog."

"What's she talking about?" Darla asked impatiently.

Spike chewed his lower lip. "No idea," he finally said.

"You know," Drusilla said, lifting her head, her smile sly. "They chained my bad dog." She growled, clicking her teeth together in his direction. "They bent you inside, made you hurt." Her smile widened. "I know how to let the dog loose."

Spike narrowed his eyes. "You talking about the chip, baby?" he asked.

"What chip?" Darla asked.

"Military boys put it in my head," Spike said.

"He can't taste the dark," Dru said. "And the blood's all stale and cold."

Darla rolled her eyes. "Want to translate that one for me?"

"I can't hurt humans," Spike admitted gruffly. Darla stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter. Spike scowled. "I can still hurt you just fine."

She snorted. "I'd like to see you try."

"I know how to take it away," Dru said, bouncing in her seat. She giggled, a low, sustained, jittery laughter.

"You can't take the chip out," Spike said gently. "Doc said it's impossible."

"Not take it out," Dru said, her eyes bright with excitement. "I can go inside."

"You know I don't like-" Spike started.

"Oh, what do you have to lose?" Darla asked. "Don't be such a pussy. Or did they take your balls when they put the muzzle on?"

Spike grimaced at her, then turned his gaze on Dru. "All right, baby. I'm yours to use."

Dru's long red finger nails hovered in front of Spike's eyes. He followed them as they moved slowly from side to side almost without realizing what he did. Their white tips floated in front of him, side to side, then up to Dru's eyes, blood, white tips, blue eyes. Such clear blue eyes, like the sunlit sky he couldn't stare into without being burned.

"Be in me."

And he was falling, surrounded by blue, by softness, by the smell of her hair, the curve of her lips as she spoke again, from what seemed a great distance.

"Be in my eyes."

And he was.

*

Buffy climbed into the basement of the hotel and headed up the stairs after Angel. Once in the lobby, he made a beeline for a file cabinet behind the counter, and began to rifle through it. She rolled her eyes and sat down at the cleared off desk behind the check-out counter. After dialing Cordelia's number, she listened to the ringing, wondering if she should call her mom, let the others know what was going on. And that it would probably be a few days before-

"Hello?" Cordelia said.

"It's me," Buffy answered.

"And?"

"I found him," Buffy said. "We're back at the hotel." She looked at Angel's profile, all his concentration on the papers he was searching through. "We missed Darla and Dru at the club. They're going to be holding some kind of demon auditions tonight, but no one seems to know where." There was a pause on the other side of the line. "I thought you or one of the others might have an idea where we could find out."

She could hear Cordelia talking to someone else, portions of the conversation reaching her ears. "Research...Didn't I tell you she'd...Demon version of Fame..." Buffy waited, feeling like that's all she'd been doing since she got to LA. Listening. Waiting. Following. She didn't fit in here. No one wanted her around. Why was she even staying? So what if Angel wanted to go after the vamps or the lawyers alone? She stared at him, his eyes as they flicked over the slip of paper in front of him, the hard set of his jaw, the efficient brush of his fingers as he filed a number. Could she really force him to accept her help? Could she really be any use here, when he seemed so completely uninterested in hearing her? Whatever influence she'd had, whatever she'd meant to him in the past...it didn't seem to... She had the sudden urge to smooth back an errant spike of his hair, to press her face to his chest, draw his lower lip into her mouth where she could taste... She propped her heavy head up with a hand. Her eyelids drooping. God, she was tired.

Cordelia's voice broke into her thoughts. "Okay, Gunn's going to try a couple of his contacts. They're not demons, but they might have heard something. And Wesley's going to-" She stopped, cut off by a sudden gasp. Buffy sat up straight as she heard an almost scream over the line, a loud thunking as the phone dropped, and then a confusing wave of noise, groans of pain, a thrashing, dim murmurs. It quieted, and Buffy held the phone warily.

"Cordelia?" she said, her voice hesitant. "Are you okay?" She frowned at the vague sound of voices, and turned a helpless look to Angel. He was studiously pretending to ignore her and the entire conversation, but she could tell he was listening. His fingers closed too hard on the next file he pulled, crumpling it against his palm. "Hello?"

"Ah- yes," Wesley's voice came across the line. "It's Wesley here."

"What's going on?" Buffy asked. "Is everyone okay?"

"Cordelia will be fine once she takes a few pain killers," Wesley said. He paused. "The girl she's seen in her vision, however, I cannot vouch for so easily."

"The girl?" Buffy prompted.

"Seems to be a victim of a demon attack, or will be the victim if we can't stop it in time." He spoke off the phone, his voice muffled, then returned. "Yes, from Cordelia's description I'm fairly sure it's a variant of a Tarkith. Very large. Very vicious. Very strong."

"You're not going after it alone?" Buffy said.

"No, it would be the three of us," Wesley answered.

"Well, come pick me up," Buffy said. "I'll help you kill it. And hopefully keep you from being killed in the process."

"Are you sure you-" Wesley started.

"It's my job," Buffy said. She looked up at Angel, catching him before he could look away. He returned her gaze.

"We'll be right there," Wesley said. She hung up, her eyes still on Angel.

"Well?" she said. "Cordelia's had a vision." He flipped through a stack of papers, pulling one out of the batch. "Do you care?"

"I'm a little busy," Angel said. "If you're done with the phone, I have a contact who may know where Darla and Dru are going."

"Cordelia and Gunn and Wesley are going to face a demon right now," Buffy said. "They're going to try to do your job."

"I'm not forcing them to do anything," Angel said, picking up the receiver.

"You might as well-"

"What about you?" Angel said. "I thought you said you were going to trail me to the ends of the earth. I thought you were determined to help me whether I wanted it or not."

"There are other people who need help more," Buffy said. "Dru and Darla will still be here tomorrow."

"Not if I kill them tonight," Angel answered. He dialed a number and turned away.

"You're going to let your friends face the fights that are meant for you?" Buffy said. "You're going to let them risk their lives..." She trailed off. "Will it be worth it to kill the people you hate if the people you love die because you weren't there?"

After a short pause, Angel said simply, "Yes." And Buffy could think of no answer for that. She grabbed the sword off the desk and walked outside alone.


	6. Part Six

**Relief**

**-  
PART SIX**

Spike blinked. Then blinked again, shaking the fog from his mind. He touched his temple absently, turning his head from side to side. Dru stared at him, her head cocked. Darla was drumming her fingers impatiently against the dashboard.

"I don't feel any different," he said.

"You will," Dru answered, with a little smile. "When you feed." Her smile broke into a grin, and she opened the door to the car.

Darla climbed out after her. "Finally. I'm starving here."

Spike touched the back of his head, then ran his fingers over his lips, still feeling slightly disconnected. He shrugged and opened the door on his side, taking the hand Dru offered as he stepped out. It wasn't that he doubted her power. He'd seen it too many times to doubt. He'd watched her take possession of countless minds, twist them, play with them, turn them inside out. He knew what she was capable of. But he didn't see how even she could bypass a computer chip.

They entered the bar with Darla in the lead. A few of the humans that filled the place looked over as the three of them entered, but most were too focused on the game that played on the two giant TV screens on either end of the bar. Darla curled her lip at the stench of beer and the dull roar of the crowd as points were scored. She grabbed the closest warm body, a man returning from the bar with a newly filled cup, and without preamble or hesitation, sank her teeth into his neck. Dru laughed, and pulled Spike over toward the bar, then let go of his hand and dashed away through the crowd. He followed a little slowly, reluctant to embarrass himself when the chip kicked in and the blinding pain started, not wanting to burst her bubble or see her face fall when she realized modern technology was beyond her grasp.

When he reached her again, she was standing behind the bar, one hand tight around the back of the bartender's neck, the other holding a whimpering young girl, who Spike suspected had only managed to get inside the club with the help of a fake ID. The girl's wide blue eyes were filling with tears. Blonde hair fell to her shoulders. Dru's fingernails bit into her arm, and she jerked against the vampire's unflinching grip.

"I found one for you, Spike," Dru said. She shoved the girl against the bar, and Spike reached out to grab the back of her neck and hold her against the bar. He looked at her warily, sending a doubtful glance at Dru. He wasn't hurting her yet, but if he went any farther the chip would activate. Dru smiled, and motioned for him to go on. "She's a good one," she said. "Young, the way you like."

"You always pick the good ones," Spike said. He stared at the back of her head, her golden hair, pictured those blue eyes. Pictured another set of eyes, a little like hers, tinged with green. "But-"

"Just drink," Drusilla said. "Don't be afraid. Mummy has made you strong again, you'll see."

Spike's eyes narrowed. He could see Buffy in this quivering girl. He could feel every sting of rejection, every slight, every taunt, every ounce of contempt. He felt her, and he looked at the blond girl he held helpless. He lunged forward, expecting the pain to jerk his body upright. His teeth sank into the tanned flesh of the girl's neck, and she moaned in pain. Blood was in his mouth, warm, sharp, sweet, fire on his tongue. After a moment of pure shock, he fed greedily, swallowing the liquid like a man dying of thirst. It was everything he hadn't let himself remember in those long months of stale refrigerated pig's blood, setting his entire body tingling with power, with pleasure. He could hear the girl's heartbeat, fluttering fast with fear, then slowing as he drained her life. As he took her into himself. As he was himself again. He was Spike. He was vampire.

He dropped her limp, spent body, and turned his golden eyes on the crowd as whispers of what was happening in the back spread through their dull minds. The humiliations he'd suffered since the chip was put in, the shame, the crippling hatred of what he'd become fell away as he felt her blood, her warm life, coursing in his veins. He bared bloody teeth, and took a deep breath of the terror that filled the bar like perfume. His hands shot out, grabbing one who ran for the door, and his teeth sank deep inside the man's neck. He was death, and it was joyous.

Angel held the phone between his ear and shoulder, shuffling through a stack of numbers and addresses. He listened to it ring on the other end, and tried to clear her from his mind. He saw her in front of him, her voice breaking as she described the ruins of her life, the pain that filled her to overflowing. He felt the length of her pressed against him, her hair brushing lightly against his skin, a teasing caress. He heard her voice, accusatory, disappointed, determined. He loved her for it, and he hated her for coming. For making him doubt what he knew was simple. He was certain of what he needed to do, and she only made what was difficult even harder.

The phone stopped ringing, and a voice spoke in a demon tongue. Angel answered, asking about Darla and Dru, her face fading as he returned to his quest. He wouldn't let her come between him and the task he had to do. No one could stop him. No one could help him. Not even her.

And when it was over, she would understand.

If she didn't, it wouldn't matter. Nothing would.

Buffy stood in the back of Gunn's truck as they pulled up a darkened alley. Her eyes darted from side to side, her grip tight around the sword in her hand. She hopped out of the truck as it screeched to a halt, scanning the ground. Cordelia, Gunn and Wesley piled out of the truck, carrying an array of axes, knives and clubs.

"Where is she?" Cordelia asked. "I'm sure this is the place."

Buffy's eyes fell on a dark slick that smeared the wall. She pointed to the smear leading up the wall, into the window of a rundown building. "I'll go in first." Gunn looked like he might have argued, but he was distracted as she tossed her sword to him. He caught it, and watched her shimmy easily up the drainpipe next to the window. She clung level with the window, and held out her hand. Gunn tossed up the sword, which she caught before launching herself through the window.

She rolled, coming up on one knee, the sword out. Her eyes registered a girl lying on the ground, and then a large green demon fell on her, its mouthful of long needlelike teeth gaping. She slammed her elbow backward, knocking it off before it had a chance to bite. Then she whirled on the spiny headed thing, advancing with her sword up and ready. One of its arms shot out, swinging like a board, slapping into her body. She staggered with the impact, but she'd already brought the sword around, and she slashed downward, slicing through flesh. The thing roared with pain and charged. Buffy jumped over a lashing claw, ducked and rolled under the downward slam of a fist, and imbedded her sword up to the hilt in the thing's skull.

Gunn pulled himself up in through the window and took in the carnage, the dead demon slumped on the ground and Buffy standing over it, easing her sword out of its head. "We miss all the good stuff?" he asked.

Buffy wiped at the hot, sticky, black demon blood on her face. "If being coated with demon blood is what you call the good stuff."

"Damn," Gunn said, his face falling.

"You can have the demon blood next time," she said. She looked around tiredly. "The girl?" They peered out through the open door into the hallway where she crawled toward the stairs, whimpering.

"You're okay now," Gunn said. "I've got you." He touched her gingerly on the arm, and she looked up at him with fear-filled eyes. "I've got a truck downstairs. We'll get you to the hospital." Her face flushed with relief, her lips trembling with unspoken gratitude, her hands pressed to the bloody wound on her side. Gunn scooped her up easily into his arms and headed down the stairs behind Buffy. "I'll admit, this part is pretty good too," he said.

"Not as messy," Buffy said with a smile.

"True," Gunn said. "Demon blood is damn hard to get out. And the dry cleaner always gives you the evil eye."

Buffy laughed and the two of them hurried out into the street where Cordelia and Wesley waited beside the truck.

"Spike!" Darla said, snapping her fingers in front of his face. He growled at her, not lifting his teeth out of his third victim. She grabbed him by the nape of the neck and shook him, hard. He quickly finished draining the guy, and dropped the dead body, turning on her with anger in his eyes.

"Don't ever touch me when I'm feeding," he said, his voice low, filled with threats.

"We have to go," she said. "There are millions of people in this city, you don't have to kill all of them tonight."

He stared at her from under lowered eyelids for a moment, the blood still singing through him, the craving for more unabated. "I'm still hungry," he said, a little petulantly.

"He's a growing boy," Drusilla cooed.

"We're late," Darla countered. Spike stared at the nearly empty club. As many people as could escape had stampeded for the door; the stragglers lay in broken heaps on the ground. He grinned.

"I guess we're done here." Dru held out her hand, and he grabbed it, pulling her into a tight embrace. He touched his teeth lightly to her throat, and she shivered in his arms.

"Did I forget to say thank you, princess?" he asked. Her hand stroked the side of his face, her fingernails scratching his skin, leaving raised pink trails that faded as they quickly healed. His hands slid down to her hips, digging into her flesh. "I'll thank you properly later," he growled. She sighed, her fingers twisting against his chest.

Darla tapped her foot against the ground. They slowly turned to look at her, and she raised her eyebrow.

"We have auditions to hold," she said. "Did I mention it? Or have you both lost your hearing?" She straightened her shirt and crooked her finger. Spike and Dru followed her outside, hands twined together. Police sirens were wailing in the distance, getting closer as they climbed inside the car and roared away.

Angel hurled the stack of contact information he held at the wall, the papers fluttering through the air, useless. He bowed his head, his hands clenched at his sides as he tried to empty himself of anger, of all emotion, and feel nothing but purpose. The phone rang, and he snatched it up.

"What?" he half growled. He closed his eyes against his own rage.

"We're back at Cordelia's," Buffy said. "I killed your demon and saved your innocent. Not that you care."

"Buffy..." he started.

"Whatever," she said, cutting him off. "I'm coming back there now."

"Don't bother," he said.

"Don't tell me what to do," she answered, and the phone slammed down. He stared at it a moment, emotions, too many to identify, swelled up under his skin. He crushed the phone to the cradle, and did the same to all feeling, sweeping it down, drawing in an unneeded breath. Refocusing on what was important.

The phone rang again, and Angel picked it up slowly. "Yes?" he said, his voice carefully neutral, determined not to let her get to him this time.

"Angel?" It wasn't Buffy. Angel blinked. "Hello?"

"Kate," he said finally.

"Yeah," she said. "Remember me?" He waited, not responding to the sarcasm. "I thought you were going to take care of those two vampires we talked about. The ones who killed those women at the dress shop."

"I'm dealing with it," Angel said.

"Are you?" Kate asked. "Because I'm getting reports of a massacre in a wine cellar belonging to a Wolfram and Hart employee. And now this thing at the bar..."

"What thing?" Angel asked.

She seemed to be reading as she said. "Two female suspects. Pale skin. One with dark hair, one with light. One male. Dyed blonde. Some sort of facial deformities reported on all three. Possibly gang related." She stopped reading. "We both know what this is."

"When did it happen?" Angel asked. His eyes narrowed. Since when was Spike a part of this?

"Tonight," Kate said. "Just a couple hours ago. They drove off before the unit got there." She paused. "Somebody reported a black DeSoto down by the docks, running a couple lights, swiping a mailbox."

"Fuck," Angel said, remembering the DeSoto outside the fight club. His teeth clenched, and he shut his eyes, returning his attention to Kate, who was still speaking.

"The car's parked outside a warehouse now. I was going to send in a unit to check it out..." She trailed off, making it a question.

"No," Angel said.

"No?"

"You send any cops there right now, none of them will come out alive."

"What's going on?" Kate asked, her voice sharp with distrust.

"It doesn't matter," Angel answered. "Just give me the address. I'll take care of it."

"That's what you said before."

"Kate..." he said, his tone a warning.

"Fine," she said with ill grace, giving him the address. "But you better not-" He hung up, and grabbed his weapons bag on the way out the door.

When he reached the address, there was no car parked outside. He fought the sinking sensation in his gut, and slid the metal door to the warehouse open. His eyes fell on several demon bodies sprawled in agonized angles on the ground. The ones who couldn't cut it.

So they had muscle. And Spike was in town. And he had no idea where they were going, or what they were planning. Great. Just great.


	7. Part Seven

**Relief**

**-  
PART SEVEN**

Buffy dragged herself into the lobby of the Hyperion. Angel's car wasn't parked out front, and he was nowhere in sight. She felt she should be doing something. Looking for him. But not only was it pointless, she couldn't seem to muster the energy to do anything more than stare blankly at the front desk. Her eyes fell on the phone and she yawned, walking over to pick it up and call home.

"Hello?" her mother's voice said, slightly strained.

"Hi, mom."

"Buffy," Joyce said with a sigh of relief. "We were worried."

"Didn't you get my note?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't exactly call it reassuring."

Buffy yawned again, her jaw locking for a few seconds. "I'm fine," she said. "I may have to stay here a couple more days." Yeah. A couple days should be all I need to snap Angel out of it, she thought sarcastically.

"What about school?" Joyce said.

"What about it?" Buffy said. "It's college. Attendance barely counts." She sighed. "Anyway, I can't leave yet." She smothered another yawn, her eyes squinching shut. "Is everything okay there?"

"Yes," Joyce said hesitantly. "I-" She seemed to be listening to a voice, then she spoke again. "Let me hand you over to Willow. She came over to see if there was any word from you." There was a shuffling noise, and Willow's voice came through the receiver.

"Hey, Buff," she said.

"Hey," Buffy answered. "Anything major going down that you need my help with?"

"Nothing major," Willow said. "Minor stuff. Mainly between me and Anya." Buffy could hear a bit of exasperation behind the lighthearted comment. "No Glory sightings. But we're sort of slacking in the patrol department, what with you know- No super strength or military, uh-" She cut herself off. "Anyway, we're only taking vamps on when we have them really outnumbered or they look weak or injured. Separate them from the pack, you know, like-"

"Spike isn't helping you guys out?" Buffy said. She snorted. "But that's typical. What do I expect?"

"Oh," Willow said. "Well, he's...gone. We thought he was with you. Or..." She trailed off. "He didn't leave a note."

Buffy fought a sinking feeling. "He's probably just on a bender. I haven't seen him since I got here."

"Is everything going okay?" Willow said. "You weren't really clear in your note, but I know how it is with you and seeing Angel, and all of that...messy stuff."

"Yeah," Buffy said, propping her head up with her hand. She closed her eyes. "It's going fine. We're...um...not dead or anything."

"Okay," Willow said a little reluctantly. "You'll let us know if you need help with anything. Like magic-wise. Or just moral support."

Buffy hesitated for a moment, then shook herself. "It's all good really," she said. "I've got it all under control. Everything should be resolved soon."

"Resolution is of the good," Willow said. "And when you get back, you can check out the surprise I'm working on for you."

Buffy chuckled. "Please no spells that end up with me engaged to Spike."

"Right, scratch that surprise," Willow said. "Darn. I was so sure you'd like it."

"Next time. Cash."

"Noted."

"Tell the others I said hi."

She hung up, and stared at the front desk, her mind whirling back toward Angel in ever slower circles. Maybe he was in the basement, or his room, or one of the hundreds or fifties or whatever number of rooms were in this godforsaken place anyway. She frowned, her eyes falling on the phone again. He was either here or he wasn't. If he wasn't there was no point in looking for him. And if he was, then he wasn't being an immediate danger to the world at large. She wandered over the circular couch in the middle of the room and sank down on the musty cushions. They were softer than they looked.

Almost without thinking, she lay on her side, one hand tucked under her chin, her legs curled up against her stomach. She closed her eyes, and before her rational mind had a chance to protest, she was asleep.

Angel tried to remain calm. He tried to clear his mind. He tried to keep himself from pounding holes in the dashboard with his fists. He managed to do the last. He took a deep, unneeded breath, filling his dead lungs with air until they felt tight and stretched against his ribcage. Then he let it all out slowly.

He was never going to find them driving around LA all night. He had a better chance of getting struck by lightening. Twice. So. Think for a second. Just think. If you were Darla, and you'd just gained a bunch of minions, where would you be? What would you be planning?

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, and his grip on the steering wheel was almost enough to bend metal. He pulled up outside the hotel, and sat back for a moment, his eyes closed. In a sudden flush of anger, he slammed his fist down against the seat beside him, opened the car door and pulled it shut as hard as he could with a satisfying bang. He shook his head, forcing himself to regain control, and opened the door again.

Darla would want to pull something big. That much he was sure of. The fact that she was massing an army confirmed it. But what was she going to do with them? Pull down as much of the city as she could in one night, going out in a blaze of glory? Settle in for the long haul, using her muscle to back a play for power? Either way she'd need a place to keep the minions until she made her move. And she'd need money for whatever she was planning. Where would she get money? Finally, a question Angel was certain he knew the answer to.

Wolfram and Hart.

She and Dru couldn't possibly be on their most loved clients list after killing the entire special projects division. But Wolfram and Hart was one firm always willing to overlook the death of their own employees in the interest of the cause. The senior partners were interested in Angel, and Angel was interested in Darla, Dru, and now Spike. Therefore, it stood to reason...

Angel stepped inside the hotel, considering his options. Lindsey and Lilah were probably dead. He'd have to find out who was running the division now, and meet them, preferably in a dark alley where no one would be able to hear them scream. Then he'd- Angel froze. Buffy lay on the couch, curled in on herself like a cat, her golden hair gleaming dully in the dim light of the lobby, dried demon ick caked in the strands. Her chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, her eyelashes dark against a pale cheek smudged with demon blood and dirt. Her lips were parted slightly, just the very tips of her teeth exposed.

Angel tried to ignore her, step past her to the file cabinet or the stairs to the basement. She was just another person he couldn't include in his life, another distraction, one more thing among many he had to purge from himself. Had to because the war depended on it; winning hinged on his emptiness, on his ability to descend to the level evil fought on. Love had no place in this war.

He couldn't move past her. His feet stopped beside the couch. He looked down at her, her tiny form so fragile, so peaceful, so... He tried to quash the thoughts, the spark of feeling that lit inside him. Unable to quench it, he tried instead to hide it, push it to the back of his mind, lock it away until later. He sat down on the couch beside her head. His fingers strayed to brush a lock of hair, still soft gold despite the filth, away from her face.

She shifted in her sleep, turning her closed eyes toward him. She whimpered a little to herself, soft drowsy sounds. Angel closed his eyes against memories of her sleeping body tucked next to him, warm on warm, during a day she would never remember. He pulled his hand away from her face, and stood up, turning away from her. His feelings didn't matter. Her feelings didn't- He cut himself off. All that mattered was taking Darla down. Destroying Wolfram and Hart. He couldn't- His arms were under her knees, against her back before he could stop himself. He scooped her slight form up off the couch. She stirred, her hand curled against his chest, her body cradled in his arms. He took the stairs carefully, treading softly so as not to wake her.

He wanted to put her in the room next to his. Or better yet down the hall, as far away as possible. Instead he nudged the door of his own room open with his shoulder. He laid her carefully on the bed where she snuggled against the sheets, her hand on the pillow. The length of the day was all over her, sewer sludge on her boots, demon blood on her clothes, in her hair. Dirt and grime and gaunt exhaustion trying so hard to tarnish the beauty of her. Failing. He stared down at her for a long moment more, then backed away. He shut the door to his room quickly, and hurried down the hall, taking the stairs at an almost run. He sat down on the circular couch in the lobby, the warmth of her body still in the cushions. He put his head in his hand, and closed his eyes, her scent clinging to his shirt, to the couch, her heat, her- He jumped up and grabbed an ax on the way to the basement.

It had been a moment of weakness. He couldn't afford more than one.

But he could still do this. He just had to clear his mind. His soul. He just had to train, train until he forgot everything, until his body could kill without thought, without hesitation. Until he could focus on the mission. Until his sweat drove her scent from his body, and he was deaf to the scream of her nearness.

Lindsey pushed the door to his office closed with his dead hand. So. That was a promotion. THE promotion. Strange, how it wasn't anything like what he'd imagined all these years he'd been working his ass off to make it to the top. He frowned and rubbed at his eye with his good hand. Of course, in his early dreams of success, he'd never expected that when he finally reached a position of power like this he'd share it with a cutthroat bitch who'd be happy to see him dead. Not that he wouldn't mind seeing Lilah dead too, it's just none of this had been part of the plan. He'd always thought if he ever had the title of Vice-President of anything, even co-Vice-President, it'd mean he'd really made it. It'd mean he was someone. He sat down behind his big, beautiful desk. Only here he was, proud owner of a bonafide title, heading up the Special Projects division and he was still nobody. He didn't matter to Wolfram and Hart. Just like Holland hadn't really mattered. He was a warm body to fill a seat, and when he died nobody would miss him. He'd be replaced like Holland had been. The senior partners wouldn't even blink.

The game was starting to get old. Promotions and power had mattered at some point, he remembered. But now his hand was gone, and he'd watched more people die than he cared to count. Every time he turned around Angel was there, kicking him again. Angel, always Angel. And this damn place wouldn't do a thing about it, kept waiting for the guy to turn dark again. Like he ever would. Like the final battle even mattered. Lindsey would probably be dead before it ever even happened.

He tossed a pen across the room and listened to it thunk against the heavy curtains covering his new panoramic view of the city. It was a great office. So what?

"What an arm," a seductive female voice murmured behind him. Darla. Her lips came up next to his ear, and he shuddered even though he knew it was what she wanted, what she expected. He always did what she wanted, and she would never care. Another cutthroat bitch who'd think nothing of killing him. Sometimes he hoped she would.

"Darla," he said, and turned. She smiled at him, all bright blonde hair and gorgeous curves and smooth, perfect, unaging skin. He'd saved her when she'd been dying, turned her. But she would never see him as anything but food.

"So happy to see you're the one they chose," Darla purred. He knew it was a lie. Like he'd known she would be here. Like he knew every feature of her face, and the contours of her neck, and the soft brush of her hair.

"Lilah's still alive," he said, the words clipped short.

Darla pouted. "Can't imagine why they'd keep both of you," she said. Then she shrugged and smiled, showing teeth. "Ahhh, well," she said. "More for me."

"Grandmother's appetites are large," another female voice said. Lindsey looked past Darla for the first time and saw Drusilla wandering toward the window, her fingers tracing the wall. A man in a black trenchcoat followed her, his fists jammed in his pockets, his platinum blonde head tilted at a slight angle.

Lindsey's eyes narrowed. "Spike?" he asked. He'd read profiles in the archives of just about every person or demon that had played a part in Darla's first unlife. This guy matched only one.

The man looked over, and bobbed his head once. "At your service," he said, then paused. "Or actually, you're at mine." He grinned, cocky and self-assured. Lindsey hated him.

Lindsey returned his attention to Darla, who was now perched on the edge of his desk, her legs straddling the arms of his chair. He wished she couldn't hear his heartbeat. He could school his face not to react, but his heart was beating too hard and too fast. Like telling secrets. Still, there were some secrets he managed to keep. She leaned forward and traced a fingernail down the side of his face where stubble roughened his cheek.

"Late night?" she whispered. He nodded. "You're keeping my kind of hours." She gave him a little close-mouthed secret smile.

"Any chance of getting to the point this century?" Spike asked from the corner of the room where he had his arms wrapped around Drusilla's waist. Lindsey really hated him.

Drusilla turned in his arms and kissed him hard, drawing blood. "I'll distract my boy," she giggled. "While baby grandmother does her business." He claimed her mouth harshly, and then Darla's fingers turned Lindsey's head, and brought his eyes back to hers.

"We're going to need a few things," she said.

"I assumed you would."

"Penthouse," she said. "Warehouse." She met his eyes. "Weapons."

"Especially the weapons part," Spike said around a mouthful of Dru.

Lindsey opened the top drawer of his desk, and pulled out a key on a delicate keychain with a small, antique box attached, gleaming gold. He'd thought about putting a cross pendant on it, just to see what she'd do. Or to show her she couldn't play him forever. But then even if he had, they'd both know that was a lie. He tossed the key at Darla, and she plucked it out of the air, her nails hard, bright red. "Penthouse," he said. She twirled the key around her finger. "Address is in the box."

She nodded, and raised her eyebrows. "And the rest?"

"The weapons will be delivered to the warehouse."

She leaned forward, her lips almost touching his, no breath between them because he was holding his. "I need them by sunset tonight," she said.

"I'll notify you personally," he said.

"Before sunset."

He sat back in his chair, pulling away from her. "And the target?" he asked.

"Does it really matter?" she asked. She pushed his chair back with her foot, and he rolled a few feet while she slid off the desk. He stood up.

"The target," he said, keeping his voice as cold as he could.

She studied him for a moment, then dipped her shoulder in a half shrug. A shrug that said she'd tell him because he wasn't important enough to stop her plans even if he wanted to. "The Slayer," she said. Lindsey raised an eyebrow. She met his gaze. Lindsey smiled and shook his head. "What?" she said, her voice losing the seductive edge and turning impatient.

"Jealousy, Darla?" he said. "I would have expected more from you."

Spike laughed. "Then you obviously don't know her very well."

"I thought you were going to kill Angel," Lindsey said. "Not his girlfriend."

Darla's jaw clenched, her eyes heating with anger. "Shut up," she said. She took a few steps, almost too fast to see and put her hand around his throat. She stroked the skin there, and dug her nails in briefly. Lindsey stood absolutely still. "I have plans for him," she said. "Plans that are all about pain. Which is why he's going to watch her die like he should have-"

"That time he killed you?" Lindsey interrupted coolly, though his heart was beating so hard he thought his ribs would be bruised tomorrow. "This plan of yours didn't work so well the first time." Her fingers tightened again on his throat. They stood that way for a moment, her hands on him, his breathing shallow when he breathed at all. She released him one finger at a time, and slid her hand around to the back of his neck. She leaned close, and he tensed. Her tongue darted out and traced the side of his throat, slow and wet. He stopped breathing again.

"I won't make the same mistake twice," she said. "This time Angel's dust. And his Slayer dies screaming."

"He's in the mists," Drusilla said. Lindsey didn't look away from Darla, but he could hear the other vampire moving behind him. Spike came up next to Darla and insolently put his arm over her shoulder. She shot him a look of smooth, controlled anger.

"If she won't kill him, I bloody well will," he said to Lindsey, grinning. "We all know she's got that soft spot for him, all gooey in the center like a candy bar, but me? All I've got in my candy center is nuggets of blinding hate for the big poof."

"In the grey mists," Drusilla murmured. "Neither here nor there. She keeps him anchored, my Angel, but he struggles for the dark."

Lindsey's eyes darted from Spike to Darla. Neither of them seemed to have a clue what Drusilla was talking about either.

"Shut up, Dru," Darla said. "Let mommy finish."

Spike left Darla's side, and wrapped his arm around Drusilla's neck. She leaned back against him. "Bright like the sun," she said. "The sun can burn the fog." He pressed a kiss to her temple.

"All right, baby," he said.

"My Angel," she breathed. His jaw clenched, but he only smoothed her hair back with a gentle hand.

"He'll be gone soon," Spike said. "And so will the fog and the sun and whatever else he puts in your head."

She smiled and nestled against him. "Lovely blood spilled on the street." He laughed, and she smiled, slow and cruel.

Darla snapped her fingers, and Lindsey turned to her. He tucked his plastic hand inside his pocket, and stood as casually as he could.

"Sunset," she said.

"You'll hear from me."

She smiled and pressed a quick, hard, kiss to his lips. Then she turned to the other two. "Let's go." They slowly disentangled themselves from each other, and followed her when she sauntered out the door. "Always a pleasure, Lindsey," she said as the door shut behind her.

He let out a shaky breath, and rubbed his good hand over his face. He looked up at the newly placed camera in the corner of the room, letting the senior partners see that he knew they were watching. Then he looked to the phone. A second later, it rang.


	8. Part Eight

**Relief**

**-  
PART EIGHT**

Wesley sat up, jerking awake in the most uncomfortable chair known to man. He glanced around him, uncertain of his surroundings. After a few blinks, it came back to him. They were at the hospital with the girl from Cordelia's vision. Lisa, she'd said her name was. The three of them had decided to stay when they'd found she had no family or friends to notify. It wasn't as if they had pressing business elsewhere. The staff had reluctantly allowed them to flaunt visiting hours when the doctors had seen the panic Lisa felt at the mention of being left alone. The girl was asleep now in her hospital gown, bandaged, recovering. She would survive. Cordelia slept in the corner, her head propped up against the wall, her neck at a painful angle.

Gunn shouldered the door open, and handed Wesley a cup of coffee. Wesley nodded his thanks. He usually preferred tea, but today seemed to call for coffee. Which was to say, he could use the caffeine. He took a sip and waited for his head to clear.

Gunn took the last seat and slumped, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He lifted his cup of coffee and spoke softly. "Seems like I remember a time when we had other things to do besides sit in the hospital all night."

"Yes, well, the girl was frightened-" Wesley started.

Gunn shrugged. "Yeah, so are a lot of people when they find out the things that go bump in the night are real. But we ain't trauma counselors, English." He frowned. "We should be figuring out what's next." He tilted his head in Wesley's direction. "You got any ideas on that score?"

"I had supposed we would rely on Cordelia's next vision to indicate the direction from which our next mission will originate," Wesley said, sounding unbearably stuffy even to his own ears. Uncertainty always brought out his fussiest side, as if he could control things through the sheer force of language. As if presenting an image of competence, of formal distance, would give him the strength to deal with chaos and confusion.

'Yeah, right." Gunn rolled his eyes. "I got that. But I'm not talking about just our next demon ugly. I mean, the agency. Angel Investigations. Seems to me, we don't have the Angel part of that anymore. So some rethinking needs to be done."

"It's too soon to discount Angel entirely," Wesley said, his fingers folding in his lap. "I still have some hope that Buffy will be able to reach him." Gunn raised a skeptical eyebrow. And Wesley corrected himself. "But we do need a contingency plan, I'll admit."

Gunn sat forward, his face serious. "Do you think we can handle it?" He gestured with his coffee. "Without an undead superhero, I mean."

Wesley gave the question a moment of consideration before finally answering. "I don't know."

Gunn sat back, and grinned, purposely lightening the mood. "You think you can deal with working for a brother, English?" Wesley snorted. "Cause I'm thinking I'd make a great boss. Slip right into Angel's shoes." He snapped his fingers. "Like that. I got experience with this shit." He leaned back and put his hand on his chest. "I've led some demon fighting crews in my time."

Wesley smiled, and shook his head. "What about my experience?" he said. "I've got the Watcher training on my resume."

"Oooh, that's impressive," Gunn said. "But how well do you handle a battle ax?"

"I'm not working for either of you morons," Cordelia said from her corner, her eyes still closed. Wes and Gunn looked over at her, and simultaneously crossed their arms over their chests, cocking their heads. She opened her eyes a slit. "Seriously," she said. "You guys aren't even qualified to lead a waltz." Her lips turned up in a grin. "The Chase Agency is going to need strong, feminine leadership." Her eyes opened all the way. "Besides, who here gets the visions?"

"The Chase Agency?" Gunn said. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

"Neither do I," Wesley said. "Although Wyndham-Price Investigations has a certain ring..."

"Keep dreaming," Gunn said. "If you think I'm gonna run around LA telling people I work for Wyndham-Price anything, you're out of your head."

"It sounds like a department store," Cordelia put in. "Upscale department store, to be sure, but not exactly screaming 'we help the hopeless'."

"Oh really?" Wesley said, grinning. "And what will the Chase Agency be doing, representing actors or writers?"

Cordelia sat up straight, shaking her hair out of her face. "At least it's not as pretentious as Wyndham-Price."

"You realize there's a simple solution to this mess," Gunn said. They both turned to him. "Gunn Investigations." He held up his hands to stop their protests. "Strong and to the point. Kind of like me."

"We might as well just call ourselves-" Cordelia stopped, her hands clenching the arm rests of her seat, her jaw tight, her eyes fluttering, rolling up. She shook in her seat, and then tipped forward. Gunn lunged and caught her before she hit the floor. Wesley knelt beside them. She shook in Gunn's arms, her head jerking, her body convulsing as the vision took her. She gasped, writhing, her lips pulled back, her teeth exposed. She panted and moaned with the pain. Wesley watched, unable to help her, useless as he always felt when the visions knocked her down.

"Girl," she grunted. "Sometime tonight." She thrashed once. "Knives." Her voice rose, and she screamed once, before slumping.

"What's going on?" Lisa asked from her hospital bed, confused, lethargic from the drugs. Waking to screams couldn't have helped her state of mind.

"Don't be alarmed," Wesley said, distracted. He didn't take his eyes off Cordelia as Gunn lowered her to the cold tile and lightly tapped her cheek.

"She's out cold," he said. They watched, holding their breath. Her eyelids fluttered. She groaned, and lay still for a long moment, squinting up at the bright fluorescent lights. Then she extended her hand to Gunn, and he helped her rise to a sitting position.

"Remind me to pick up some morphine before we go," she said, her voice hoarse despite the smile she tried to direct at them.

"Are you all right?" Wesley asked, kneeling beside her. He tried to take her wrist in his hand, check her pulse. She pushed him away.

"I'm fine," she said. "Same old, same old. Crushing pain. Whatever." She closed her eyes. "The girl's tied down, and they're cutting her. I can't see their faces. Hoods, robes. I think it's a ritual. It happens tonight."

"Well, that gives us a little time," Wesley said. "Did you see anything that could give us a location?"

Cordelia frowned, her eyes still closed. "I'm not sure. Big room. She's on a...table. There are a bunch of tables. Chairs. It's a restaurant. There's a lobster tank in the corner. Anchors on the wall."

"So we find the Red Lobster gone evil," Gunn said. "And we get the girl out." He glanced at Wesley. "Buffy?" he said.

Cordelia opened her eyes and exchanged looks with Wesley. "She does lower our chances of dying."

Wesley nodded. "We'll keep her informed."

"I probably just shouldn't ask, should I?" Lisa asked from the hospital bed, her face pale, her breathing a little shallow.

"No," Wesley said, with as much compassion as he could muster. "You're better off forgetting."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Forget?" She looked down at the claw marks on her arms, now covered by thick white bandages. "Right."

Gunn shrugged. "You'd be surprised what you can forget. If you have to." He helped Cordelia rise to her feet, and she leaned against him for support before visibly gathering her strength and standing on her own. She winced, touching her hand to her head.

"I'm sorry," she said to Lisa. "But we have to-"

"Go," the girl finished. "Yeah." She hesitated, and they all started for the door, Cordelia limping slightly. "Hey, guys?" Wesley turned back. "Thanks."

He smiled. "It's what we do."

Cordelia scanned the hall for a bathroom as they headed out. "Just a sec," she said. "I want to go splash some water on my face." Her smile was tight, strained. "Maybe pop a couple aspirin." She slipped inside the thankfully empty bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. She splashed a handful of water on her face, then hands trembling, reached for the hem of her shirt. It couldn't be true. What she'd thought she felt had to be some afterimage of the vision, some extension of the mind-numbing headaches. A mind trick. Sympathy pains for the girl who'd been cut in the images that had flooded her. She pulled the shirt up and hissed as pain flared. Then the long knife slash that split her torso down the middle was revealed. She touched the barely dried blood, the swollen skin around the shallow but painful cut. It wasn't possible, but it was true.

"Okay," she muttered, her throat tight with fear. "This is new."

Buffy woke slowly to warmth. She shifted, burrowing deeper under the covers, into the softness of the mattress. She smiled slightly. Maybe she could just lie here, stay in bed forever. She'd never have to slay another vampire, or get kicked out of another school, or watch another man leave... She opened her eyes at that. Her eyes flicked around the room, dark except for one light over in the corner, as she tried to get her bearings. It was a bedroom. For a moment she didn't recognize it, then the brief glimpse she'd had the day before registered. Angel's room. How had she gotten here? The curtains were drawn, the door creaked open.

"Hey," she said, before Angel could sneak out. He was halfway through the door, the black he wore blending with the shadows around him. His pale face broke the darkness as he turned back to face her. She sat up, pushing the covers to her waist. She shifted and brushed at her hair with her fingers, feeling silly as they caught in the remains of last night's slayage. She was a mess. His eyes settled on her, intense, leaving trails of heat where they touched. She felt her cheeks flush. His gaze didn't waver, devouring her, and her eyes swept him into herself, ravenous. "Angel?" she said, her voice hesitant. Her hand crept over in his direction. There was something in him, in the way he was looking at her that felt like her Angel, like the Angel she knew. A softness in him that she hadn't been able to reach before now. She stayed still on the bed, afraid to move, to say something that would drive him away. "How long was I asleep?" she finally asked.

She was afraid he'd already withdrawn when he didn't answer. Then he finally spoke, his voice barely audible. "It's almost noon."

She nodded, her eyes still locked on him, her world so small, shrunken to just the pinpoint that was him. He was still poised for flight in the doorway, and she knew that the moment of hesitation would have to break. She had to say something. A bunch of things flitted into her mind, that she needed a shower, that he had to stop now, that Darla and Dru weren't worth it, that she'd missed him. But they were all wrong.

"Do you know why Riley left?" she said, her voice small, gentle, but still a shock because she hadn't known what she would say. He didn't answer, but he was listening, staring at her, eyes dark. If he felt anything at the mention of her ex-boyfriend's name, he didn't show it. But then, she hadn't expected him to. "I didn't love him," she said. She looked up from the bedspread around her legs, and met his eyes. "He knew."

He was coiled like a spring, almost vibrating with tension. She continued, expecting each word she said to be the one that sent him out the door, away from her. "I was running," she said. She wasn't telling it right. There's no way he could understand what she was talking about as she jumped without explanation. But he stood there, and she continued. "I chased him, to ask him to stay." Angel bowed his head, waited. Buffy laughed, bitter. "Not because I wanted him to stay. Because I owed him a chance." She kicked the last of the covers off, and he jerked at the movement. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I hadn't tried to love him," she said. "I didn't want to." She wanted to touch Angel so badly, to trace his skin with her fingers, to press her body to his. She stayed on the bed. "I didn't know if I could love him, but I thought I owed him. That I at least had to try." Her jaw clenched. "I was too late. He'd already gone. And do you know what I felt?

Angel looked up from the floor, and their eyes caught. Buffy felt herself slip, fall into him.

"Relief," she whispered. They stared at each other for a long moment. "You think I don't understand what you're doing?" She stood up, keeping her hands at her sides, barely. "You think I don't know what you're feeling?" She shook her head. "I know how much easier it is to feel nothing."

"I never wanted that for you," he said, his voice cracked and broken.

"What we want has zip to do with the real world, I learned that a long time ago." She took a step toward him, tentative, not wanting to scare him. He stayed where he was. "It hurts less sometimes to be alone. It hurts less to push other people away." She took another step. "It's not brave," she said, her voice taking on an edge. "It's not selfless. No matter what you tell yourself. It's not to win any war. It's because you don't want to hurt, or hurt anyone else." One more step. "I know because I've done the same thing."

"No," he said, but he stayed in the doorway. She took the last step, and put her hand lightly on his arm. He trembled under her touch. She looked up at him.

"Please, let me help you." She felt tears fill her eyes, and impatiently blinked them away, hoping he hadn't noticed. "I'll stop being alone, if you will."

He looked at her, his head tipped down. His thumb brushed against her cheekbone, swept her cheek. Then it dropped away from her. "I'm sorry," he said. He turned away.

"Wait." She reached out. He pulled away, and headed for the stairs.

"I have to go," he said. "I have a lead."

"I'll come with you." She hurried behind him, trying to grab the back of his shirt. He dodged her hand, then turned and faced her one last time.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "But this is all I have." His eyes set her skin on fire again. "I have to do this." She followed him doggedly down the stairs, and as they reached the lobby the phone rang. She looked from it to him. He pushed through the door to the basement. The phone rang again.

Buffy sighed and picked it up. "Yeah?"

Wesley spoke on the other end. "Buffy?"

"What is it?" Buffy asked. "Angel's going off into the sewers again, so if it's not an emergency..."

"Cordelia's had another vision."

Buffy slumped against the counter and watched the basement door swing shut. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes."

Dru watched as the lawyer with one hand passed Darla the keys to their warehouse. She could see his hunger when he looked at Grandmother. Grandmother loved to tease. She'd wrapped that little towel around herself because she knew how much he wanted her. Sometimes Dru thought Grandmother wanted him too, a little. Grandmother liked to play. And desire made the blood warmer. Delicious.

Dru sat back on the couch in their new penthouse, and let her fingers weave a pattern in the air. Red. Always red. And black of course. White, although it hurt her hands. But also grey. There was always grey now, sometimes lighter, sometimes darker. Cold. Dru shivered, and felt Spike's heavy leather coat drop down over her. He touched her hair and headed for the door.

"What did you need the restaurant for?" the lawyer was saying.

"All part of the plan," Grandmother answered.

"So fill me in."

"That's need to know," Spike said. "And you don't." Dru snuggled deeper under the coat. The lawyer didn't need to know. He had his own plans. They were too dark to see. She closed her eyes. Dark.

"Give me something," Lindsey said. "I need to write this up for the senior partners." Dru shivered again.

"Paperwork isn't my concern," Grandmother told him. She patted his cheek. Dru could hear his heartbeat pounding in her head. She wished it wasn't so loud. She could barely hear anything else.

"Darla," he said, and they all knew it was begging.

She gave him a coy little smile. "Why don't you ask Lilah to fill you in?

Oh, he didn't like that. Dru giggled. His face got all hard and angry, and the dark parts of him turned purple like a bruise. "Don't play with me Darla," he said. Dru laughed again.

"There's no way to stop the game," she said. Spike looked over at her, his head tilted. She smiled at him. Her baby Grandmother and the lawyer ignored her, but she didn't mind. Her words came from her head, and her insides were her own. It didn't matter if no one but Spike wanted to share. He was enough. For now.

"All your partners need to know is that the Slayer isn't going to survive the night," Darla said. Dru's eyes flitted to Spike again. The Slayer had her hooks in him, sharp, drawing beautiful blood. She held him as tight as the metal in his head had held him. But Dru had broken the bonds that muzzled him. She would tear out the Slayer's hooks.

"The seer is blind," she muttered under her breath. Grandmother and her Spike shut the lawyer out, and his heartbeat faded from her ears. Spike flopped down next to her on the couch, and pulled her close. Her head rested against his chest. She listened to the absence of a heartbeat. Such loud silence. "The Slayer will fall," she finished, not even aware she spoke.


	9. Part Nine

** RELIEF**

**-  
PART NINE**

"What's the word?" Buffy asked as Gunn hung up the phone. They were back at Cordelia's apartment, which had been turned into research central as they tried to decifer the lastest vision.

"The word is something's going down tonight at this abandoned restaurant on 7th. Used to be a seafood place, Captain McAllister's, but now it's just sitting there. Lots of ritual sacrifice ready space just an easy break-in away."

"Sound like a match?" Buffy asked Cordelia.

"Yeah," she said, and nodded stiffly, her back ramrod straight. "That's got to be it."

Buffy looked over at Wesley. "Any luck on figuring out why the sacrificing is going on tonight? Are we looking at a random religious thing, like evil Christmas with people instead of turkeys, and without the eating..." She stopped. "I hope." She shook the thought away. "Or are we looking at maybe a big fat demon god getting called out of hell." She frowned. "I've already got a god down in Sunnydale trying to kill me, so I'd really prefer option number one. If you can swing it."

"I can't find any supernatural or occult significance for tonight," Wesley said frustrated. "Of any kind. Neither option one nor two."

"Well, there's only like 2 million different religions in the world, right?" Gunn said. "So every day's gotta be a religious holiday for somebody."

"I suppose you're right," Wesley said. "I just wish I could find some concrete indication. The ritual Cordelia described isn't one I'm familiar with. I couldn't tell you what is being accomplished."

"And no idea if these guys are human or demon?" Buffy asked Cordelia.

Cordelia shook her head. "I couldn't really tell with the robes," she said. "They could have been either."

Buffy nodded. "Okay, so I'll just have to be sure to stop them before they get the ritual started. That way, we never have to find out if there's a worse bad on the other end." She picked up her weapons bag and Angel's sword, then moved over to the window and peered out. "I've still got some time before sunset. But maybe I should go ahead and set-up now. I think I'd rather be in position before they get there."

"That's what I'm talking 'bout," Gunn said. "What say we get with the killing?" He grabbed his ax off Cordelia's coffee table and hefted it over his shoulder.

Buffy shook her head. "I'm doing this one alone."

"The hell you are," Gunn said. "This is our thing. We get the visions." Cordelia cleared her throat. "She gets the visions," he amended. "We kill the evil."

"Not this time," she said. "I'm not bringing a bunch of warm bodies into a ritual sacrifice situation." She stepped between Gunn and the door. "If this is about calling up some bigger, badder demon, the last thing I need is to free whoever they plan on sacrificing, only to hand deliver one of you as a replacement."

"You're not giving us a whole lot of credit," Gunn said. "We can take care of ourselves."

"Maybe so, but right now I'm taking care of you. And the easiest way to do that is for you all to stay here." She looked at Wesley. "I'm the Slayer. This is my job."

"Bull," Cordelia said. She started to cross her arms over her chest, then stopped gingerly and dropped them to her sides. "I'm not hype to being sacrificed, but sitting around here on our asses isn't okay. This is our job too." She added, "Even if we did get fired."

"Yeah," Gunn said, tucking his ax against his chest as he crossed his arms stubbornly. "We're professionals."

"Surely backup can't hurt," Wesley said. "There's no reason for you to go into this alone."

"Did you not catch the part about any one of you being used as a human sacrifice?"

"Did you not catch the part where you don't get to tell us what to do?" Cordelia asked.

"Look," Buffy said. "I appreciate the fact that you guys want to fight evil." She turned her eyes on Gunn. "And I get that you're not civilians. You've got your very own weapons that you know how to use and everything." Her eyes flicked to Wesley. "But you don't have the training or the experience I do. I don't want to pull rank. But the Chosen one here is me. That means you stay. I go."

"And what about the Scoobies back in Sunnydale?" Cordelia asked. "They're not Chosen either, but they're out there in the field fighting with you."

"Sometimes," Buffy said. "But if they were here right now, no. I'd be telling them to stay too." She heaved a tired sigh. "This is just common sense. You don't give the other side extra ammunition." She stared at Wesley. "You know this is how it has to be."

He hesitated. "If you're sure you can handle-"

"I'm sure."

"It would be unfortunate if one of us were captured and sacrified," he said. Cordelia rolled her eyes.

"Man, whose side are you on?" Gunn dropped the ax from his shoulder.

"Yours," Wesley said. "I'd rather all of us remained alive."

"Right," Buffy said. "Exactly. Now I'm out of here. I'll keep you updated." She headed for the door, tossing a "don't worry," over her shoulder.

"Who else feels like we're working for Angel all over again?" Gunn said raising a hand. Cordelia lifted one as well. They both turned to Wesley. "What's a brother got to do to be allowed to kill a demon around here?"

"It's for the best," Wesley muttered.

Gunn snorted and hurled his ax onto the couch. "Now what?"

Cordelia picked the remote up off the coffee table. "Knock yourself out," she said as she tossed it to him.

*

Lindsey pulled into his spot in the Wolfram and Hart parking garage in a bad mood. He turned the car off and yanked on the parking brake. He reached for a stack of briefs and swore as one of them slipped to the floor, bumped by his clumsy, useless hand. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And everyone knew it. The firm. Darla. He might as well start wearing a sign that said, "I am not important." He felt a movement behind him, and his eyes flicked up to the rearview. Nothing. He turned instinctively to face the backseat, and jerked.

Angel.

The handsome vampire smirked. Lindsey stared at him, feeling like a mouse watching a snake, waiting to be eaten. His heart, his stupid heart, was giving him away, giving Angel the satisfaction of his fear. But fear was something he lived, a constant when he ran the risk of execution every morning he came to work. Fear was something he could face. Even smile at most of the time. He turned around to face the windshield, putting his back to Angel, and threw his paperwork down in the passenger's seat.

"Some days it's just not worth getting up in the morning." He raised his arms and rolled his eyes to the heavens. "What next? Is the seat of my pants going to split? Will they be out of my favorite gorgonzola at the market?"

He expected the hands that wrapped around his neck and pulled him back, tight against his seat. He didn't even bother to reach up and try to break Angel's hold on his throat. He was braced for the pressure against his windpipe, the soft, rough brush of words against his ear. When it came, it was no surprise.

"Shut up, and listen hard, boy," Angel said. "Darla may have spared you, for God knows what reason. But if you don't give me what I want, I won't be so kind." He tightened his grip, then loosened it, and Lindsey sucked in a deep breath.

"Empty threats," he said with all the sarcastic bravado he could muster. "Aren't we getting tired of those yet?"

"Who says they're empty?" Angel's fingers twitched.

"Come on, big guy," Lindsey said. "We both know you're not going to kill me. Because you're the hero, and heroes don't go around murdering people."

Angel's grip closed, and Lindsey's lungs began to burn as his air supply was cut off. "Don't be so sure," Angel whispered in his ear. "Things change. Rules change. And I'm nobody's hero." He loosened his grip just as Lindsey's vision started to cloud and fog to grey. Lindsey took a raspy, tortured breath, Angel's hands making it impossible for him to pant and gasp for the air he needed. A sliver of uncertainty pierced him. There was somehing different about Angel, something harder. He wondered for the first time in a long time if the Senior Partners could possibly be right, if there was a chance that Angel could be turned, would be on their side when the end came. But the thought was fleeting as Angel's grip and the struggle to breathe consumed him.

"You know what I want." The voice was soft, but so rough, so cold, it was more terrifying than a shout.

Lindsey choked out an answer he didn't expect Angel to believe. "I don't know where they are." One of Angel's hands dropped away from his neck, and he felt the press of fangs, just barely puncturing the skin, the same skin Darla had teased with her tongue. With his other hand, Angel maintained a grip on his windpipe, finger to throat, holding him as Darla had. Like mother, like son. Only, Angel had never really been a son to her. Angel had been all the things to her that Lindsey was not, would never be. He took advantage of the extra air to catch his breath.

Angel's tongue swiped the pricked skin on his neck; so like Darla. Lindsey watched in the mirror as two fat drops of blood disappeared, invisible, like magic. "Wrong answer," Angel growled.

"I haven't seen them since-" Lindsey started. Angel shook him with one hand, and his teeth rattled in his head as pressure against his throat deepened.

"I'm going to kill you," Angel said. "And maybe you don't care. Maybe that's what you want. Maybe that's why you're still sitting there lying to me."

The thing was, in that moment, all of a sudden Lindsey didn't want to die. Most days, he thought he wouldn't mind it too much. But sitting there, feeling the purpose in the hand that could so easily snuff out his life, he didn't feel relief, or even resignation. He wanted to take his next breath, and have tomorrow to maybe get up and do things differently, even if he never would make the change. But it was too soon. He couldn't tell Angel the truth, not now, not yet. Not if he wanted to live. Which just at that moment, he did. If he kept lying, he was dead. If he told the truth now and betrayed the Senior Partners he would be just as dead.

Grey started to fade in from the sides of his vision again, and he struggled to breathe as he turned on the car, slipped the gear shift into reverse, and peeled out of his spot, going as fast as German engineering could. The tires squealed, and Angel said something, but Lindsey was having a hard time hearing, as if with the vision all other sense were slipping into grey. He slammed into another car, and Angel's hands were dislodged slightly as the two of them jerked forward. When he found his grip again, Lindsey could feel the change in him, and he knew that the warnings were over. This time Angel was going in for the kill. Lindsey swerved out into the lot, swerved again, and hurtled through the lowered barrier over the exit to the garage, snapping the wood, and denting the hood of his car before careening out into the sunlight.

He said a quick thank you that he had opted against tinted windows, as Angel threw himself from the car and rolled out of the sun, back into the shade of the concrete overhang. Lindsey didn't look back as he sped off down the street, not taking any chances that Angel would find some way to follow him. He couldn't go to Darla. Or home. Or to his office. Angel could find him anywhere that was familiar.

He'd have to find a place to hide out, just for a few nights. But first he needed cash. He wasn't sure if Angel had the means to trace his credit cards, but he wouldn't put it past him. And he wasn't taking any chances.

He had to contact the firm. Not that he expected any protection from them, but he had to keep them informed. They would have seen Angel on the video monitors at the exit of the garage, and now was not the time to be caught keeping things from them. They'd want everything to go smoothly when the rest was set in motion.

But before all that, he needed a drink. Or two.

He took a left, then a right, and kept going until he saw a bar that was open. He pulled his Benz over, and stepped out, his plastic hand chaffing at his abraided throat.

*

Buffy entered the abandoned seafood restaurant, her eyes flitting around the empty dining room. It was all just as Cordelia had described, anchors on the walls, empty tables, some of them overturned, empty lobster tank, a thick layer of dust over everything.

"I have a reservation," she called into the silence. "Hello?"

The only thing missing was a bunch of guys in robes and a girl being cut open on one of those tables. So she'd beaten them there, which meant the whole operation should be a piece of cake. She'd just settle in, surprise them, and take out half of them with the crossbow before they even knew what hit them. With any luck the rest would run.

She turned in the center of the room, scanning for the best vantage point to set up. The bar over in the corner could work if she....

There was a cracking noise, and the ceiling fell in all around her, pelting her with acoustic tile fragments. Bodies followed immediately after as robed figures landed on the ground in a haze of dust, surrounding her. A trap.

*Or maybe,* she thought, as she hefted Angel's sword, *I spoke too soon about the piece of cake.*

There were six of them, all hooded. She couldn't see what type of demon they were, if they were demon at all, but she wasn't waiting for an ID match. And neither were they as they each pulled a gleaming silver knife, and closed in around her. She whirled into motion, the sword arcing in a deadly blur of metal, slicing through a hand that reached to stab her. She slammed the pommel into a face and heard a crunch that told her, whatever these guys were they had noses, breakable ones. She tried to spin away from a knife slash, but there was little room to move, and the blade nicked her arm. She ignored the sting, kicked away another knife and ducked a fist. She pulled a thin stake from her boot and plunged it into an exposed chest. The robed figure exploded into dust.

So they were vampires.

She put the surprise away, and concentrated on keeping her sword in motion, slamming it into a solar plexus, then bringing it up with a whirl to slice through a neck and send another vampire crumbling. Two down.

But the remaining four were too close to her. She couldn't break out into the open where she could move freely. Another knife slipped past her guard, and she just barely managed to turn before it could plunge into her torso. It sliced through her shoulder instead. The sting was worse this time, but she couldn't concentrate on that yet. She chopped at one of her attackers, missing, but driving him back a step, giving her time to block a stab, and kick up, connecting with a chin. She shook her head as a throbbing buzz started in her ears. She kept the sword spinning as the remaining vampires regrouped and came at her again from all sides. Her vision blurred. She blinked twice to clear it, and another knife slashed toward her. She stumbled away, and it only scratched her cheek. Her balance was off; she shook her head again.

She was barely hurt. She hadn't lost much blood. So why was she seeing about ten vampires instead of four as her vision blurred again? They were hesitating around her, so she moved on one of them with the sword. The stinging where she'd been cut was worse now. In fact, her whole body was burning. She swung the sword and missed, almost losing her balance. She tried to heave the blade back up. It was so heavy. Her hands weren't working. She dropped it, and she barely heard the clang over the buzzing in her head. Something was very, very wrong.

She tried to move, and her body was sluggish. All she could feel was heat, stinging through her. It had to be the knives. Poison. She felt herself sway, and barely managed to keep her feet. The vampires moved in all around her, and she tried to brace for the attack, for the knives she knew now she couldn't stop. Her arms were so heavy. Her vision blurred, spots floating in front of her, electric orange streaks.

She didn't even realize she'd fallen until she hit the ground. Hands. She could barely feel them grab her through the burning. They dragged her up, and her vision swung and spun. Another robed figure stalked toward her, and Buffy tried to focus, her eyes half closed, on what had to be their leader. The head vampire leaned in close, and her face came briefly into focus.

Darla.

Then all Buffy saw was black.

*

Cordelia plucked a chip out of the bag on the table and popped it in her mouth. "See what I don't get," she said, "is how come the popular kids let Screech hang out with them." She gestured with another chip at the TV. "I mean, I wouldn't have been caught dead talking to that kid in high school. But look at Kelly, treating him like a human being." She shook her head. "So unrealistic."

"What do you care?" Gunn grabbed a handful of chips himself. "There's like ten people go to this high school. It's obviously not a show overly concerned with realism."

"True," Cordelia said. "But kids watch this. Kids are impressionable. The Screeches of the world shouldn't be given the false hope that maybe the cool kids'll invite them to be a part of the group." She frowned at the TV disapprovingly. "There are reasons for the separation of cool and geek. If geeks are allowed to hang out with cool people, then cool loses all-" She caught the eyebrow Gunn was raising at her. "What?" she said. He just shook his head. "I'm not shallow! I'm trying to prevent anarchy!"

He laughed, then grimaced. "What I want to know is, why are we sitting here watching stupid teen shows when there's fighting going on?" He sighed. "We should have gone to the restaurant. So what if she didn't want us there? Why should she get to hog all the demons?"

"She's a slay hog," Cordelia agreed.

"Well, she is the Slayer," Wesley pointed out. "It does give her a right to hog- " He stopped himself. "To fulfill her destiny. It's her birthright after all."

Gunn waved that aside with his hand. "So that means she's the only one that gets to have any fun?"

"Okay, maybe getting killed by a demon. Fun. Now you're losing me," Cordelia said. She shrugged. "I'm sure she can handle your average demon sacrifice on her own. But, you know, even the Lone Ranger has a sidekick. She didn't have to look down on our demon fighting skills. We're better than that Tonto guy!"

"Yeah," Gunn backed her up. "We can contribute valuable...stuff."

"If you two want to contribute, you could try to assist me with my research," Wesley put in dryly. "Rather than simply complaining. Or rotting your brain watching programming you admit is ridiculous drivel."

Cordelia and Gunn exchanged a look, then both spoke at the same time. "Nah." Gunn grinned, and Cordelia started to smile in return. As her lips turned up, her smile became a grimace of pain, and she tipped forward, then back. Her hands clutched the side of the couch, the material of a cushion next to her. She gritted her teeth against the pain, and tried to focus on the images that slammed into her head like lightning flashes. Her mind had been full before the vision started, but the vision slammed, stuffed, forced more inside her skull. Filled her until she had to stretch or choke on it. But she couldn't choke, there was too much at stake. She had to absorb it all.

"Warehouse," she said, as she registered the first image, the feeling that came with it. "Cold." She could see rope. Then more as the vision swooped back, dizzy, sickening. "A girl," she said. She was tied up, tied to a chair. The bonds were too tight, cutting into her wrists. She was unconscious. The warehouse's rafters. Something moving. Cordelia tried to make sense of the blurs. Color hurt her head. Darkness left her blind. And then she could see the girl's face.

"Buffy."


	10. Part Ten

** RELIEF**

**-  
PART TEN**

Spike stood behind Buffy and settled his hand in her hair. Her head was tipped down and strands of her hair slipped out of the loose ponytail that held it. Her arms were tied behind the chair, her legs were tied in front. The poison from the knives still held her unconscious. Helpless. He stroked her head.

Darla had taken the others out for a feeding frenzy before the serious work started. She'd left one demon behind to guard the door. Not so much to keep anyone from coming in as to keep Spike from letting a certain someone out. Darla had never been much for trust.

Spike circled around to face Buffy. He looked down at her tiny form, at the blood that stained her cheekbone and soaked through her shirt. He wasn't sure whether to be offended that Darla would ever think he'd let the Slayer go, or to laugh at the idea that one demon would be able to stop him if he did decide he wanted to free her. Hell, even half conscious, Buffy could take care of one demon on her own.

All he'd have to do was cut the rope.

And a part of him wanted to. He knelt in front of her, leaning in against her knees. His fingers traced over her lips. It had become a habit. Helping her. Doing what he knew she would want him to. Trying to win her approval. Hoping that one day, if he kept pretending he was one of them, she would stop seeing him as a monster. He'd pretended for her for so long that he'd almost convinced himself it was true. That he was like her. He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

If he let her go now, she'd owe him. There was no one else to find her. No one else to save her. Not even Angel. All he had to do was cut the rope, and she'd take care of the rest herself. She'd have to thank him. She'd have to care. If he let her go now...

Nothing would change.

She wouldn't love him. He'd never be like her.

He wasn't made for the light. She was good. At the core, she was light. And he didn't love the light. Not like he loved the dark. He'd reached for her when there was nothing else to reach for. But there was nothing in her to sustain him. Not like blood could. Not like death could.

He leaned close to her and pressed his lips to hers, hard, close-mouthed. He drew back, and hovered over the healing knife slash on her face. His tongue flicked out and swiped the blood from her cheek. Slayer blood. Buffy's blood. Sweet and sticky. Beautiful. Like her.

He could kill her now.

He knew Darla's plans for her. He knew that she would die screaming, that she would wish for death before it was over. He could do it now, while she slept. It would be a kindness. It would be mercy.

Spike pushed against her knees to propel himself to his feet.

There was no mercy in him to offer.

He would watch her bleed. He would watch her scream. And when she was gone, the world would be smaller because she had been so big, so big she'd filled his whole mind for a while. But there would be no remorse. He was what he was. And demons didn't change.

He turned as the door to the warehouse slid open, and Drusilla led the others inside. Her eyes glittered with the feed. Her skin glowed pale. Her dark hair clung and spun around her face. She was cruelty, and sex, and pain, and death. And love. She smiled at him, extended her arms.

He went to her. She was like him.

She was the dark.

*

Cordelia lay on the floor, letting the cold of the tile floor seep into her skull. It didn't soothe the throbbing. Her whole body ached. She opened her eyes and looked up into Gunn's face. Wes hovered behind him. Her hand flew to her cheekbone, and she traced the smooth surface. No cut. No blood. Buffy's cheek had been bleeding. She took Gunn's offered hand, and heaved herself up. Her fist pressed hard to the side of her head, as if the pressure would stop her head from splitting in half.

"You mentioned Buffy?" Wesley prompted gently.

Cordelia almost nodded, then thought better of moving her head. "Yeah." Her eyes flitted to her left wrist. Not rubbed raw by the ropes. Buffy's wrists had been raw. "She's tied up in a warehouse. I'm pretty sure she was drugged. She was cut." She closed her eyes and concentrated on not throwing up. "Can you get me an aspirin?" Gunn nodded and levered her to the couch before hurrying to the bathroom. He returned with a glass of water and three tabs of aspirin. Cordelia swallowed all three at once.

"So I guess she needed us after all," Gunn said.

"An exceedingly bad time for 'I told you so's'," Wesley said.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Why would they just take her captive though?" Cordelia asked. "Why not sacrifice her?"

"And who has her?" Wesley asked. "We don't know what kind of demon was underneath the robes you saw. All we have is a ritual that doesn't seem to exist or have any significance whatsoever." He looked over at his books. "She's the Slayer. Her enemies are too many to count. It could be anyone. Anything." He returned his attention to Cordelia. "Are there any more details you can remember from the visions? No matter how small."

Cordelia settled her hand on her stomach. "There may be something else," she said. She looked from Gunn to Wes. "But I don't want you to freak out."

Gunn's eyes narrowed. "See, you had to go say that. Now I'm already freaking."

"The last vision I had. Of the girl being sacrificed." Cordelia took a deep breath. "I saw the girl slit open, and then..." She slowly lifted her shirt away from her stomach and revealed the bottom of the angry, red slash.

"Damn," Gunn whispered.

"You didn't mention this before?" Wesley said, his voice hard.

"I thought it was just an extension of the headaches." Cordelia yanked her shirt back down. "It wasn't that bad. I mean, it sucks. But I thought I could handle it. I *can* handle it."

"Your visions have begun to manifest on your physical body," Wesley said, shaking his head. "This could be catastrophic for you."

"But that's the thing," Cordelia interrupted. "It didn't happen this time. Just the time before." She met Wesley's eyes. "Any ideas, Mr. King of Research?"

Wesley slowly shook his head. "Not yet. But I'll find something."

"Right, but first..." Cordelia said.

"Someone's gotta tell Angel," Gunn finished.

All three exchanged looks of dread and concern, then Cordelia and Gunn both spoke at once. "Not it."

*

Lindsey stood in his office and waited for Angel, annoyed. And afraid. His escape this afternoon was erased. The relative safety he could have found was gone. He'd risked his life to keep the damn information from Angel, and now that it was time for Angel to get Darla's location, it should have been someone else's turn to get strangled. But no, it was him again. Tag, you're it. Only he was always it.

He knew exactly how this was going to go. Angel would burst in and grab him. Angel would hurt him. He would tell Angel what he wanted to know. But not before Angel hurt him. What every part of him screamed to do was go hide somewhere until this was all over. Or longer. Maybe forever. Hiding forever sounded like a good idea. What the Senior Partners had told him to do was wait here until it all played out the way he knew it would. No one disobeyed the Senior Partners.

He spared a thought for Darla. He was going to tell Angel exactly where she was, and then Angel would kill her. But better her than him.

He finished a shot of whiskey. No one had said he couldn't be drunk when it all went down. He had a feeling it wouldn't help. Nothing sobered a person up faster than torture. And he'd have to take enough of the pain to keep Angel from getting suspicious. That was going to be a lot of pain. Once it started, every little bit of numbness would help. Or maybe he was just fooling himself. He poured himself another glass.

He never tasted it.

The door flew inward, blown off its hinges. He turned, and caught a brief glimpse of Angel before something slammed into his face, too fast for him to react or run. The glass in his hand slipped, and he heard it shatter against the floor. His body followed a second later.

*

Angel cocked his head and studied Lindsey. The lawyer was tied to a chair in the Hyperion's basement. His eyes were glazed, and he was shaking a little. Blood dripped from his good hand where his fingernails had once been. His face was swollen, bruised purple, red and blue. His lip bled. His shirt was in shreds, blood soaking through where Angel had made a series of efficient cuts. Angel touched the knife on the table next to Lindsey's chair, then moved his hand to the small ax. He was ready to end this.

He lifted the ax. Lindsey didn't seem to notice, his eyes unfocused, eyelids drooping. Angel slapped him, and his head rocked with the blow. He blinked.

"Wake up," Angel said. "Look at me." Lindsey blinked again, and tried to lift his head to look at Angel. "My patience is running out." Angel extended the ax. "Last chance."

"Don't know where," Lindsey muttered.

"Then you lose your other hand." Angel lifted the ax, then swung it down in one swift motion.

"Wait!" Lindsey screamed, his voice horse, abused. Angel stopped the ax before it chopped, the blade resting on the lawyer's wrist, drawing a thin line of blood. Lindsey whimpered.

"Tell me."

"There's a warehouse."

*

Angel took the stairs two at a time. He was ready. He knew where they were. There was nothing, no one, who could stop him now. By morning, Darla, Dru, and Spike would all be dead. His family, his past, his sins, his weakness wiped out. Evil defeated. He hung the ax on his belt, and pushed open the door to the lobby. There was just one more thing he needed. He entered his office, and rummaged through the drawers of his desk. He pocketed the silver lighter and left the office.

He headed back through the lobby, and saw Cordelia, Gunn and Wes pile in through the front door. He didn't have time to deal with them.

"Angel," Wesley said. Angel ignored the Watcher, pushing past the three of them to reach the door. He shoved it open. "Angel, it's Buffy." He hesitated in the doorway, and Wesley continued, speaking as fast as he could. "Cordelia had a vision. She's been captured."

He turned his head, his neck felt stiff, his muscles ached. "I know where Darla is," he said. It hurt to say the words. His whole body hurt.

"Then she'll be there tomorrow," Wesley said. "Buffy could be dead by then."

Angel hesitated a long moment. He turned his head to face the door. He shut his eyes, and his head dropped, bowing. He could see her behind his eyes. In the sunlight. He could see her crying. He could see her dead in a pool of water. His eyes popped open. He looked down at his hands, at the ax on his belt, at the blood that stained it. Buffy was only in his mind, in his heart, in the past. This was real. Blood spilled because of evil he hadn't been able to destroy was real. He knew what he had to do.

He walked through the door and felt it swing shut behind him. He didn't let himself look back. He didn't let himself think about her. He couldn't. He couldn't think it was real. This was a war. He couldn't stop himself from loving her, but he wouldn't let his weakness keep him from finishing it. This was his best chance, maybe his only chance to stop Darla. He had to take it. No matter what the cost.

Cordelia grabbed his arm, and he shook her off. "Where are you going?" She jogged to keep up with him. He walked faster, his strides eating the pavement, his jaw clenched. He reached his car and slid inside.

She gripped the open window. "What are you going to do?"

"Burn the warehouse to the ground," They'd all burn. He started the car.

But Buffy..."

Buffy. He tried not to hear her name. The decision was already made. "I can't help you," he said as he stepped on the gas. There was nothing else to say.


	11. Part Eleven

**Relief**

**-  
PART ELEVEN**

Cordelia reentered the hotel. Gunn and Wesley looked up, and she saw the faint hope in their eyes fade.

"What now?" Gunn asked.

Cordelia shook her head helplessly. "We seem to be asking that a lot lately." She collapsed on the circular couch and slumped back. "He's going to burn the warehouse. To the ground he said." She covered her eyes. "I can't believe he's willing to let her die." She rubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. "I thought..." She opened her eyes and looked at Wesley. "I just thought... I mean, it's Buffy. And Angel. If anything could have stopped him..."

"I know," Wesley agreed. "I believe we all thought the same."

Cordelia closed her eyes again. Her head still ached. "We were wrong."

"So, Angel's out," Gunn said. "Who does that leave?"

Wesley smiled, knowing, rueful. "Just us."

Cordelia sat up. She took in Gunn, his homemade ax on his shoulder, and a look of half-anticipation on his face. Eager, but all too human. She looked at Wesley, different now than the bumbling man who had come to Sunnydale, but different enough? And herself? She was different too. She liked to think she was better now than she had been, but when it came to stakes and swords she might as well just sit on the sidelines for all the help she'd be. It was a pretty sorry picture. A bunch of sidekicks, a back-up team, trying to play hero.

"It's suicide," she muttered. And for what? A girl she wasn't even sure she liked. But a girl who'd given everything to save the rest of the world, even when the rest of the world turned around and slapped her in the face as a thank you. So, okay. Now it was Buffy's turn to be saved. And maybe they weren't the best people to do it, but they were the only hope she had.

"Great," Cordelia said, pasting on her brightest May Queen smile. "Suicide. When do we start?"

Buffy woke slowly to darkness and the murmur of voices. For a moment, she was disoriented, then the memory of the trap slammed past the throbbing in her shoulder. She stifled her groan and kept her eyes closed, trying to get a sense of her surroundings without revealing that she was again conscious.

"Sorry you couldn't be here this time," Darla was saying, "but I know better than to give you another chance to stab me in the back." She paused, and Buffy heard movement behind her. She stayed still, even as the footsteps approached the back of the chair where she was tied. "And don't worry, you'll still get to watch her die. Even if video is so much less personal." A hand came down on Buffy's head. "Still it's worth the tradeoff. All the fun, and none of the risk to me. You've just got to love technology."

The hand on Buffy's head grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. Hair ripped from Buffy's skull, and her eyes began to water. She tried, despite that, to continue her unconscious act. A sharp slap cracked across her wounded cheek, and she felt the cut there break open.

"I know you're awake, little girl," Darla said into her ear. "You can drop the act."

Buffy opened her eyes and took in the video camera propped up on a tripod, facing her. Bright light surrounded her and the video camera, some kind of spotlight. Past the circle of light, she couldn't make out very much of the darkened warehouse. She couldn't see the exits or who else was out there. Just the camera. She slid her gaze to the right, and Darla smiled at her.

"Morning, sunshine." Darla looked over at the camera as her vamp face emerged. "Smile one more time for Angel." Her fingernail slid down the side of Buffy's face, drawing blood by the time it reached her chin. "Such a pretty smile." Her voice lowered to a whisper, and her lips brushed Buffy's ear. "Such a pretty girl." Her breath blew soft against Buffy's cheek. "He'll want to remember that smile because once I'm done with you, there won't be any pretty left."

Wesley's fear leaped as Cordelia confirmed what he already knew they had to do. The fear, the weakness, reminded him of the past. Of offering up Buffy, and Angel, and anything else Balthazaar wanted, in the face of torture. That memory fed his fear, deepened it, replaced it with the almost incapacitating terror that he would fail them again. That his fear would be too much for him. He hesitated on the brink. Cordelia and Gunn stared at him, waiting, expecting him to have an answer for them. In the face of that expectation of strength, his resolve hardened. "Right," he said. "First thing. We need to find out where Buffy is."

"And how exactly are we gonna do that?" Gunn asked. "We don't even know who took her."

Again they looked at him, waiting for him to say the right thing, to offer a solution, to lead. "So far the books have been useless," he said. "Maybe if the Host were to read us..." he trailed off. "He might at least be able to build on your vision, Cordelia. Although I have my doubts about-" He stopped. In the silence, a distant thud repeated itself. "Did anyone hear that?" he asked.

They all stood listening, heads cocked. Another muffled thud. Now the glances they exchanged turned uneasy.

"It's coming from the basement," Wesley said.

"What do you think?" Gunn asked. "Friend or foe?"

"The way our luck has been going," Cordy said, "definitely foe."

Gunn hefted his ax. "Well, we best go find out." He started for the basement door. "No sense waiting for it to come up."

"No sense rushing in half-cocked either," Wesley said.

"Don't tell me you want us to wait until it eats us."

"No, only until I have a moment to prepare myself." Wesley walked to the weapons cabinet. Fear. It was always there. But it didn't control him anymore. He knew pain, and death. He knew he was able to stand up, even when all he wanted to do was crumble. He was no champion. No Slayer. He was just a man. But he could stand.

The cabinet was nearly empty, Angel having removed most of the weapons long before, but a few leftovers remained. Wesley picked up a mace and a small crossbow. He tested the mace in his hand. There was comfort in the weight of it, despite the fact that these hands held a book more naturally than a weapon.

"Stay back if there's hand to hand." He handed the bow over to Cordelia. "And try not to shoot any of the good guys." She took the weapon with a grim nod of thanks.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you, English," Gunn said. "Aside from the handy organizational skills." He winked, and Wesley smiled at the crack.

Cordelia frowned at Gunn. "Excuse me? What about my skills? I'll have you know I ran this place single-handedly in the beginning."

"You've got some skills," Gunn conceded. "Not sure they're too much about the organization though. I've heard about that crazy filing system you had up in here."

"That system worked." Cordelia just barely stopped herself from waving the crossbow at him. "I could find anything within three seconds flat. I don't-"

They all fell silent at another thump from below. It sounded no closer or louder than the first. Which Wesley supposed was a good sign. Maybe. "Ready?" he said.

Gunn flashed a predatory grin. "I thought you'd never ask."

They moved warily down the basement steps, Gunn in the lead, Cordelia bringing up the rear. When they reached the bottom, Gunn swung around the side of the stairs, ax high. He lowered it abruptly, and Wesley bumped into his back.

"Foe," Gunn said. "Whatever's left of one anyway." Wesley felt Cordelia come up behind him, and the two of them moved around Gunn to get a look at what had caused his reaction.

"My God," Cordelia said.

Wesley stared at Lindsey McDonald. He was chained to a chair, bleeding, looking up at them through slitted, swollen eyelids. Wesley hardly knew where to look first, each individual injury not registering fully, only an overwhelming image of pain, bruised and bloody pain. Something Wesley was intimately familiar with thanks to Faith. Blunt, sharp, hot, cold, loud. "Angel did this," Wesley breathed. Angel was fond of sharp. Faith had been too.

Lindsey tried to laugh, the sound horse, harsh. "You're surprised?" He coughed and spat blood on the floor. "Not what you expected from your shining champion? Is torture beneath Angel? The hero." His swollen face twisted into a sarcastic sneer.

Cordelia moved to his side, her hands dropping to the chains that bound him to the chair, searching for a way to release them.

"Wait," Wesley said.

Cordelia turned to him, disbelief on her face. "He needs help. I know he's part of Wolfram and Hart, but we can't just-"

"Leave him," Wesley interrupted, his voice cold and hard, leaving no room for argument. He ignored the anger in Cordelia's glare, and the doubt on Gunn's face, concentrating on the wreck of a man in front of him. He wanted to feel sympathy for this man. He wanted to help him. "Leave him," he said again. He had a job to do. Cordelia reluctantly dropped her hands from the lock.

Buffy listened to Darla circle around in back of her, felt the fingers at the base of her neck, and then the fingernails sunk into her back and shoulders, sunk in until they drew blood. She stared into the camera and didn't wince.

Darla reached her other side, but Buffy didn't look at her. "Shall we begin?" Buffy continued to stare. The knife in Darla's hand flicked out and sliced open her left cheek, leaving a cut there to match the one from the fight on her right. She ignored it. She wasn't going to give Darla the satisfaction of sharing one second of her pain. And she refused to pass her pain on to Angel. Darla crouched in front of her, putting herself at Buffy's eye level. "Very brave," she said. "Stoic." She pursed her lips. "But I've seen Slayers beg. I've made them weep."

Buffy met Darla's eyes for the first time, dead-on, her gaze hard. "Do you really think you can break me?"

Darla looked deep into her eyes, and smiled. "No," she admitted, to Buffy's surprise. "But I know someone who can."

Buffy heard another pair of footsteps, the click of heels. Thin slender fingers rested gently on the top of her head. Drusilla spoke.

"Such thoughts you put in my boys' heads. Thoughts that burn like holy water. Let's see what's in your head. Let's see what makes you burn."

Buffy tossed her head once, futilely. She was locked in place. There was no way to escape those fingers. Abruptly, they lifted.

"So obvious," Drusilla said. "Like a clear pool. I can see the bottom." She put her hand on Buffy's shoulder as she walked around her, smearing the blood Darla had drawn over her fingers. She faced Buffy, licking her fingertips clean, and Buffy turned her head away. She knew how Drusilla's mind tricks worked. The vampire moved in close, her legs straddling Buffy's knees. Her hair smelled sweet, like fruit. Too sweet. Rotting fruit. Dru grabbed her chin in an unbreakable grip that hurt her jaw. She kept her eyes to the side, not looking at the other woman. But Dru only laughed, a low jitter, and the tip of her fingernail came into Buffy's line of vision.

As she drew her fingers back to the right, Buffy's eyes followed despite herself. "Be in me," Dru said softly. Those fingernails, bright as blood, traveled up to point at Dru's eyes. Buffy tried not to look, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. As soon as her eyes met Dru's she couldn't look away.

"Be in my eyes."

Lindsey clung to consciousness. He felt the pain less. It was so constant, it became a sort of feedback, always there, but something that could be spoken over. A deep hum instead of the shrill shriek it had been in the beginning. He looked down at the shallow cut on his wrist, at the hand he could have lost. For what? To make it look good for the senior partners, to play someone else's cards, someone else's game. He breathed through his mouth, avoiding taking in air through his bloody nose. The air tasted like blood.

He was going to throw up.

"We can't just leave him," Cordelia was saying. Arguing for him. "He needs medical attention." Beautiful. Filled with pity. With feeling. He wondered what it felt like to be her, to be filled with anything.

"And he'll get it," Wesley agreed. "As soon as he tells us where Dru and Darla are." Lindsey forced his head up, and met Wesley's eyes. It never ended. "Where did you send Angel?"

"Who cares?" Gunn said. "We're looking for Buffy. Or have you forgotten?"

Too late, the heroes. Lindsey spoke, his voice a rough whisper. "Buffy's already dead." He laughed again, his lip splitting open with the bitter smile. They were all dead. Buffy, Angel, Darla. Lindsey was dead too. He'd been dead a long time. They just hadn't realized it yet. He stared at his stump.

"Where is she?" Wesley asked.

Sitting in a chair like this one probably. He felt something. Not pity, never pity. But a kind of kinship with a girl he'd never met. "It doesn't matter now." He closed his eyes. He needed some codeine or a percocet. Several in fact. And a drink.

"Maybe not to you," Gunn said, his voice loud, full of attitude.

"Not even to her." Gunn stood there, tall, fairly shining with anger and righteousness. Not dead. These three were still alive. They still cared. But they'd learn eventually. How things really were. "She's past caring." The words scraped his throat.

"How do you know?" Wesley stepped closer. There was a knife on the long wooden table next to Lindsey's chair. It was already stained with Lindsey's blood. He picked it up. When Lindsey said nothing, he leaned in closer. "It doesn't have to be the hard way. But I think you'll find Angel isn't the only one willing to break a few rules. Or a few bones in your case."

Lindsey stared at the knife. He wasn't going to sit here and bleed again. He'd done his part for the senior partners. Everything was already in motion. Now it was about time he did what was best for him. And what was best for him was avoiding any more pain "Don't bother with the knife and the threats," he said. He tipped his head back, his face ached with every word, every expression. "I don't have a reason to hide what I know." He would have shrugged if he had the strength. "It's already too late to stop it."

"Let us be the judge of that," Wesley said. "You just stick to what you know. Where is Buffy?"

"With Darla."

"It was Darla who took her," Wesley said, half to himself.

"But my vision..." Cordelia muttered. "That trap... How?"

Lindsey kept that part to himself. It was beside the point, and the ability to hijack Cordelia's mind could be to his benefit in the future. If he had a future. Ah well, dead men tell no tales. He was a dead man; he'd keep his tales to himself.

"You mean, Buffy is in the warehouse with Darla?" Gunn said. "That warehouse Angel is planning on burning to the ground right now?"

"Call Angel." Wesley's voice was urgent. Alive. "Try his cellphone." Cordelia ran for the stairs.

"Where is Darla?" Wesley snapped, his attention back on Lindsey. "Where did you send Angel?" He tightened his grip on the knife. Lindsey looked at it, and half-raised his eyebrow even though the movement hurt.

"Ease up, Wes," he said. "No need to get bloodthirsty. I can even draw you a map if you need one."

"Why are we trusting him?" Gunn said. "He's obviously working some angle. This could be another trap."

"Take it or leave it," Lindsey said. His dry throat caught, and he coughed, spitting out another metallic mouthful of blood. "I don't care what you do with the information. At this point, I'm just tired of being everybody's punching bag." He pulled a little against the chains. "I'm tired of doing what I'm told, and I'm tired of being afraid, and I'm tired of bleeding." He stopped, running out of breath, his ribs hurting. "I'm tired."

He looked up. "It's too late," he said. "But I'll give you what you want. Use it or not. I don't care." And he didn't. Mostly. He told himself he was giving them the address because at this point all they could do was get there in time to collect the bodies. But a part of him liked the idea of them getting there in time to muck up all the senior partners' plans. A part of him wanted the whole thing to fall apart, and fall apart because of him. The interchangeable, invisible man. The man who didn't matter. He met Wesley's eyes. Maybe there was a little life left in this dead man after all.

"Tell me," Wesley said.

Buffy blinked, and Dru was gone. She stared into familiar dark brown eyes. A shudder of relief ripped through her. "Angel," she breathed. He looked down at her, his body close to hers, his legs straddling hers, his fingers tilting her chin up. He traced the cut Darla had left on her face, his touch so gentle. His thumb brushed over her forehead. He smiled a little, and she smiled back. His head lowered, his lips pressing to hers. She responded hungrily, unable to reach up and touch him as she wanted to. Now that she finally had him, for the first time since she'd come to LA. Now that there were no more walls around him. She needed to touch him.

"We've got to get out of here," she whispered. "Can you cut these?" She strained against the ropes. He kissed her again, again gently. She shut her eyes, forgetting for a moment where she was.

He broke the kiss, and her eyes slowly open. It felt like a dream. He brushed the stray hairs around her face back, then straightened. He stepped away from her.

She looked at him, puzzled.

She wasn't ready when he hit her, the back of his hand connecting with her cheek. Light exploded into her vision. Her head drooped on her neck, and she blinked back unconsciousness. When she looked up at him, she whispered. "Angelus."

He shook his head. "Guess again," he said. He knelt in front of her, his hands on her knees. He ran his hand up her thigh. The ropes were too tight. She couldn't move her legs to kick him away. She didn't know if she would have kicked at him, even if she could. He felt like Angel. He couldn't be Angel.

"I don't understand."

"It's me," he said. None of Angelus's mockery in his voice. "Soul and all."

"No," she said. "This is a trick." She screwed her eyes shut, tight. She didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to see this happening. It wasn't happening. Not again. This was not happening. He pinched her earlobe gently between two fingers, and she leaned unconsciously toward his hand. The heel of his hand slammed into her chin. Her jaw closed down on her tongue. She tasted blood in her mouth. Pain radiating through her head. Her eyes opened again.

She faced him, unable to wipe away the tears that were gathering in her eyes. "What are you doing?" she said. She choked on the blood in her mouth. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you deserve it, Buffy," he said. His voice was so familiar, so soft. It hurt to hear it. She wanted to scream. She looked at him instead, her head pounding, and waited for this to make sense. "You killed me," he said. His face twisted, flickering to anger, then sadness. "You sent me to hell. You killed my soul."

And the worst part was. It did make sense. She had done those things. She had betrayed him. "I didn't know." A little sob escaped. "I didn't know." He studied her, and she looked up, tried to reach for him. "I love you. I didn't mean-"

"Don't use that word," he said.

A helpless whimper escaped her. "What word? Angel, please-"

"Don't tell me you love me," he said. He sounded so sad. She'd done that to him. "I loved you," he said. "I loved you, and you made me suffer for it."

"No," she said. She shook her head, and her vision spun. She couldn't stop shaking her head, as if maybe denying it would stop it from being true.

"Now you have to suffer for me." When he brought his hand out from behind his back, a knife glittered in it. His hand darted out, too fast to see. Her arm burned, soaked in new blood. "You moved on." Knife. Pain. "You found someone else." Blood. Pain. "You killed me." He moved in and kissed her hard, his teeth biting her lip, drawing more blood. His tongue slipped inside to taste the blood inside her mouth. Then he leaned in close to her ear and whispered. "Close your eyes."

He stood back, waiting. The knife spinning from one hand to the other. She stared at him. This couldn't be Angel. She knew Angel, and Angel would never hurt her. Not like this. Not even if she did deserve it. She looked at his face, as if expecting it to fade away like a mask, and show her who this really was. What this really was. But his face was solid. Real. Not a mask. She met his eyes. His soul was there, inside him. This was real. She knew it was him. This was Angel.

She closed her eyes.

The knife sunk into her abdomen, not deep enough to kill, only deep enough to hurt. Bone deep, sharp, agonizing hurt. Like what she'd done to him.

She screamed.

Gunn ran through another yellow light. Okay, he admitted to himself, that last one was red. He glanced around to see if there were any cops waiting to bust him. Nope. Maybe the PTB weren't completely asleep on the job. He hoped someone was paying attention because they were going to need all the help they could get. He kept the gas pressed down as far as it would go, the truck at its maximum speed of 65. The engine was starting to groan a little, but he kept the pedal pressed to the floor.

Next to him, Cordelia dialed Angel's cell phone again. "Answer, damn it!" she cursed. "Idiot vampire." Wesley sat next to Gunn, a map of LA in his lap, the warehouse marked in red.

"Left here!" he shouted.

Gunn screamed into the turn late, the truck balancing briefly on two wheels. Everyone in the cab held their breath. It banged back down onto four wheels. For a moment there was only the soft whoosh of everyone breathing out. Then Cordelia started to dial again on her cell phone, and Gunn slammed on the gas.

There were only two guards. Angel snapped the first one's neck before it realized he was there. The second heard the loud crack of vertebrae splintering, and turned, seeing Angel. He opened his scaled mouth to yell. Angel's ax landed right between the horns in the middle of his forehead. He slumped. Angel pulled the ax out and replaced it on his belt. If anyone made it out of the inferno, he'd finish them personally.

He pulled everything he needed out of the trunk of his car. Chains and padlock for the warehouse door. Gasoline along the outside of the entire building and splashed against the door and the walls. He ducked back inside the car to grab his lighter. His cell phone was on the seat. Ringing. The damn thing wouldn't stop ringing. They wouldn't understand that this was something he had to do. He grabbed the phone and threw it as hard as he could. It shattered against concrete, its ring cut off.

He tossed the open lighter into a puddle of gasoline, and watched the flames leap up all around the building. It would all be over soon.


	12. Part Twelve

**Relief**

**-  
PART TWELVE**

The warehouse was engulfed in flame. Orange, yellow and blue ate at the building, having climbed the walls, run up across the rooftop. A section of the roof fell inward. Angel kept his eyes open. This would be the difficult part - making sure none of them escaped as the fire started to burn openings in the building. He could hear them pounding on the door, but the chain was holding. They would try to break through a disintegrating wall, or find a way up through the holes being burned in the roof. It would be harder for the vampires to escape through the flames than some of the other demons, but he couldn't let his guard down. All three of them had survived this long for good reason. He tightened his grip on the ax. If the fire wasn't enough, he was ready.

He glanced behind him as a truck roared up, registered that it was Gunn's, and returned to scanning the warehouse, looking for demons, but mostly for Darla. For Dru. For Spike. Wesley grabbed him by the shoulder. He kept his eyes on the building.

"You idiot!" Wesley screamed.

"This is what I have to-" he said.

Wesley spoke over him, his voice breaking. "Buffy is inside that building." His voice came faster, rising as he said something else about Darla, and traps and Lindsey. Cordelia joined in shouting about his cellphone. And Gunn ran to the door, trying to break the lock with his ax, the flames making it hard for him to get close enough. Angel couldn't hear any of it, couldn't understand the words. All he heard was Buffy inside. Buffy was inside that building. The building he'd torched. The building crumbling before him. Killing everything inside. Buffy was inside.

His brain shut down, and he moved on instinct. He growled, low and threatening. Wesley stepped away from him. He moved forward and pushed Gunn away from the door. He swung his ax once. Twice. Three times. The handle on his ax broke, but the chain fell apart. He left the ax on the ground. Gunn grabbed him, patting out the flames on his shirt. His face was scorched, but he couldn't really feel it. He shook Gunn away again. He was going to kill Darla with his bare hands.

He kicked the burning door in, and tossed aside the roasted demon carcass that fell against him. His eyes flicked over the interior of the warehouse. Demons everywhere. Several dead, but at least a dozen still alive. Most of them were gathered around the door with weapons in their hands. Darla and Spike stood at the back of the pack, directing them. He looked past them, at the burning support beams holding up the roof. Fire dripped from the ceiling. Thick smoke filled the air. More weapons were stockpiled in the corner, some of them burning. A few of the demons were, as he'd predicted, trying to break through the walls. His eyes found Buffy through the smoke on the other side of the room, tied to a chair. Dru was beside her, a knife in her hand. She laughed as the knife flicked out, cutting Buffy again, then she screamed as small pieces of the burning roof fell down into her hair. She ran for Spike. Buffy's clothes were soaked with her own blood. He could smell it through all the smoke and flame. He filled his lungs with the scent of her blood, and felt his vampire face slip into place. Her head drooped to the side. She looked unconscious.

He started toward her, and he heard Darla yell for the demons that surrounded the door to stop him. He kept moving. He barely glanced around him as the demons surged forward. They chopped at him with axes, with swords, a few of them had crossbows. One a gun. He had no weapon. He knocked one ax to the ground as it slashed toward his face. He kicked out at another demon. But there was no way to stop them all. There were too many. The blades came at him too fast.

None of the weapons hit him. Blades slashed the air around him. He heard the crack of gunfire. Nothing touched him. He didn't ask himself why.

He could hear Darla screaming orders. He kicked a demon out of the way, used his burned hands to snap a neck. Finally something struck him, not a weapon, but one of the demon's fists. He staggered under the blow, and continued, throwing the demon back. He pulled a sword from one green-scaled pair of hands, banging the pommel against a green-scaled head with stunning force. He slashed a horned demon in half. He watched a slimy yellow demon drive at him with a spear. The spear was aimed at his heart, and it had a killing wooden shaft. He didn't have time or space to move. The spear's point stopped two inches from his heart, and slid to the right, as if on a slick invisible wall, until it was beyond him. Then as if the wall abruptly ended, the spear stabbed forward with all of the demon's strength behind it, and imbedded its shaft in the chest of a slimy grey looking thing behind him. Angel quickly beheaded the yellow demon while it hesitated. They were all putting their useless weapons down now, and raising spiked tails, claws, fists. Angel broke through the last of them, and into the open, running for Buffy. He heard the whiz of crossbow bolts being loosed, but nothing touched him.

He slashed through the ropes on Buffy's feet, on her wrists. She fell forward, and he dropped the sword to catch her. He eased her into his arms, where she lay limp. He could hear the faint beat of her heart, and it was the only thing that kept him from flying apart. He felt a surge of relief, anchoring him to this place, keeping him sane enough to look around him, take in the warehouse again.

Most of the demons were trying to escape. Wesley, Gunn and Cordelia stood in the doorway. He watched Gunn slash into a demon with his ax. Saw Wesley take a punch. His arm already bleeding from the cut of a blade, he answered the punch with a hard smashing mace against a demon's face. Cordelia put another bolt in her crossbow, took aim, shot. A demon rushed past them, knocking Wesley down. Another tore at Gunn, trying to bypass his whirling ax with claws. Another broke Cordelia's crossbow with a whip of his tail, and rushed into the night. But Wesley rose to his feet. Gunn held his ax firm. Cordelia grabbed a fallen sword. All three still standing, ready to take on the rest.

Angel spun, Buffy in his arms. Spike was enlarging an opening in the side of the warehouse with one of the discarded maces. He beat at the flames on his coat, then stepped through it, offering a hand to Dru. She shrieked as the fire flared around her, but he pulled her through. They were escaping. Darla followed. She turned her face to Angel. Blood dripped down the side of her face where something had fallen and hit her. There small burns on her arms, her head. But she was alive. And she was getting away. He looked down at Buffy, helpless in his arms. He could put her down just for a second, just long enough to finish this, to kill Darla. He could put Darla's soul to rest, defeat evil. It would just be a moment. Buffy was badly hurt. She could be dead already. There was nothing he could do for her. And Darla was right there. Darla was responsible for this. For Buffy. There was no one between them to stop him. This was his purpose. His whole existence. This is what he had trained for.

Everything he'd painstakingly frozen, every feeling, every friendship, every human part he'd tried to burn away. Everything he'd had to leave behind to make himself a weapon with one purpose. It was all for this moment. All so he could finish what he'd started, be strong enough to choose to end this. There could be nothing, no abstract greater good, no personal emotions, no human connections allowed to come between him and his one goal. Killing Darla. Destroying Wolfram and Hart. This was a war. He was the weapon.

He tensed. He could still hear Buffy's heartbeat. Weak, soft, but enough to stop him. It held him where he was. Her life, in his arms. He couldn't put it down. He couldn't let her go. Not even for the seconds it would take to grab Darla. He wouldn't take the risk.

He watched Darla duck through the opening, the fire flaming all around her. He knew it wouldn't be enough to kill her. She was gone. Because of him. He'd lost.

He looked down at Buffy's closed eyes and couldn't regret the decision he'd made. Her blood was all around him, on him, filling his lungs, filling him. It filled the emptiness he'd created inside himself. He had turned himself into a vessel, for vengeance, for violence, for what he believed was justice. But she filled him for a moment, drove the hatred and the anger underneath the enforced blankness away. She filled him with each unneeded breath, until he ached with the pain of becoming something more than a weapon. Something like a man. He brushed at the blood on her pale face with fingers blackened by demon blood and soot. He heard a crack and glanced up as another piece of the roof caved in.

Cordelia was yelling for him, and he hunched over Buffy, running for the door as a flaming support beam crashed down behind him. More of the burning roof crumbled. Something hard and heavy bounced off his shoulders, burning the back of his neck. He didn't feel it. He didn't stop. He held Buffy tight, covered her with his arms, his head and burst through the small lessening of flames that was the door to the warehouse.

Behind him, it continued to collapse, falling in on itself. There were sirens in the distance. Cordelia and Wesley were beside him. He could smell Gunn's blood, faint over the heavy blanket of Buffy's that coated his throat. He didn't turn to look at the others. He only stared into Buffy's face, at her closed eyes, and prayed.

Her eyelids flickered. His hold tightened on her, then immediately relaxed as he remembered her injuries. She opened her eyes, looked up into his face. He saw the recognition, and then the fear. She moved weakly against him, trying to escape. He didn't let her. He didn't understand the terror in her eyes, but he knew the only place she was safe was here, with him. She tried to scream, but her voice was too hoarse, scraping his ears with pain. Consciousness faded, and she was limp in his arms again.

The sirens screamed. An ambulance, fire truck, police cars. They were surrounded by noise and flashing lights. The firemen hustled toward the warehouse, some of them screaming questions. Cordelia and Wesley answered them, but Angel wasn't listening. Paramedics put Gunn on a gurney. Cordelia was talking to the boy, walking beside him as they wheeled him away. They turned her away from the ambulance at the door.

"We'll drive behind," she said.

"Don't you dare drive my truck," Gunn said. "You either, English. Stay away from my baby." He smiled weakly, and they closed the doors to the ambulance.

Someone was pulling at Angel's arms, trying to take Buffy from him. He bared his teeth, growling. The hands backed off for a moment. He looked at Buffy's face, waiting for her to open her eyes again. There was blood soaked through her clothes, some dried, some fresh. Her shirt hung off her in shreds. He brushed the side of his face against her head. He could still hear the weak thump of her heartbeat. It couldn't be as bad as it looked. But there was so much blood. He could feel it, taste it, smell it, everywhere.

There were hands again, and then he heard Wesley beside him. "Angel!" he was yelling. "They have to take her to the hospital."

Part of him knew in an intellectual, abstract way that this was true. But that was only abstract. Hospitals. Doctors. Sterile white rooms were not here. And what he knew with his whole soul, in the parts of him that predated x-rays and computers and sterile white rooms, was that the only way to keep her safe was to stay. As long as he could hear her heart beating, she was alive. If he couldn't hear it, she was gone. He couldn't let her go. He growled again. Wesley stood with the paramedics for a moment, but he couldn't hear them. He was concentrating too hard on waiting for the next beat of Buffy's heart. Each time it came. Relief. Another second when the world was in its right place.

He felt Wesley's hand on his shoulder, and twitched the man away. "They're going to let you ride in the ambulance with her," he said. "But you have to let them take her." He gripped Angel's shoulder again, putting his face close to Angel's. "If you don't let them take her, she could die. Do you understand?" He tightened his grip again, until the pain registered slightly. "They're not going to let her die. They'll take her from you if they have to. Do you understand?"

Angel nodded slowly, and turned to the ambulance. He walked toward it, growling at a paramedic who came too close. Inside the ambulance, he set Buffy down on the gurney. The two paramedics immediately swarmed inside and started to do tests. Her pulse. Her blood pressure. They pulled open her eyelid and shone light into her eyes. They spoke to each other in medical code. Angel managed to let them. Just barely managed to let them touch her, and prod her, and poke her. They shut the doors, and the sirens started as they roared toward the hospital.

He held her wrist in his hand, and felt her pulse beat weakly against the palm of his hand. He concentrated only on her pulse. He closed his eyes, and filled the world with only her. And the fact that she was alive.


	13. Part Thirteen

**Relief **  
**-  
PART THIRTEEN**

Cordelia cradled a cup of lukewarm coffee in her hand as she peeked through the window to Buffy's hospital room. The surgery had taken two hours. Two hours Angel spent pacing like a caged tiger, hackles raised, hissing and spitting...or rather, growling and snapping at anyone unlucky enough to attract his attention. The doctors had been understandably concerned. Wesley had managed to convince them that Angel was merely a very worried boyfriend, not a real threat that needed to be restrained or knocked out long enough to treat his burns and ship him up to the psych ward. Cordy could just imagine the bloodbath that would have ensued if they'd tried THAT.

Angel had practically worn a track in the floor pacing back and forth in the private room where they'd stashed him until the doctors had finally brought Buffy out of surgery. Cordelia had been dreading trying to convince the hospital to let them keep a slightly deranged man in the room with an unconscious girl. But as soon as Angel had seen the gurney carrying her, he'd immediately quieted. He sank down against the wall, and didn't move an inch while they brought her in and placed her in the hospital bed.

She'd been tiny and pale and broken looking in the bed. She was still bandaged and unconscious. They couldn't say for sure when she'd wake up.

Angel was still crouching there on the floor, back against the wall, as Cordelia looked in through the window. His eyes were on Buffy, unblinking, unwavering as if he could bring her awake through sheer force of will. Wesley sat next to the injured Slayer's bed, uneasy gaze on the vampire.

Cordelia eased the door open, and Wes looked up. Angel's eyes didn't stray.

"Gunn?" Wesley said.

Cordelia waved it away. "He's fine. The big drama queen. Like anybody needs a spleen. A few stitches, a couple units of blood, and he'll probably be on his feet again by tomorrow."

Wesley smiled.

"Trade?" Cordelia asked.

"I would like to look in on him."

"He's a little out of it. Sedated, you know. But he was conscious enough to tell me not to drive his truck before I left." She grinned, then darted a look over at the motionless vampire on the floor. "What about Angel?"

"Hasn't moved since they brought her in."

Cordelia frowned. "Do you think he's...okay?"

"Physically? A few of the burns are perhaps rather serious. But they'll heal."

"Not really what I meant."

Wesley met her eyes. "I don't know." He looked away. "I tried talking to him, but I couldn't get a response."

"Do you think she's safe with him..." Cordelia trailed off. "The way he is."

Wesley gave it a moment of serious thought. "Honestly? He's not stable. But I think she's probably safer with him than anyone else is." He paused. "He doesn't seem violent."

"Or evil," Cordelia added.

"He's just..." Wesley continued.

"Incapable of human speech?"

"Very focused."

"Right."

Wesley stood up, stretching the kinks from his back. "I'm sure she'll be waking up soon. Slayers are incredibly resilient."

"And I get to chaperone. Goodie."

"I'll stay if you..."

"I'm kidding," Cordelia said. "Go get something to eat. And tell Gunn I'm out in the parking lot doing donuts or whatever in his beloved truck."

She settled into the chair he'd vacated and stared for a moment at Angel. He could be made out of stone for all the movement he was making. He wasn't even breathing for Christ's sake. She was staring so hard that when he did move, she thought for a moment her eyes were playing tricks on her. She blinked. He inched another step closer to the bed. He curled out of his crouch and stood.

Great. He didn't move for hours, but as soon as she was alone with him, he started getting rambunctious.

"Angel," she said, using the same voice she'd used when that crazed Siamese her mom had brought into the house was climbing the curtains.

He didn't seem to hear her, his eyes on Buffy. He reached out with his fingers and touched them to the uninjured ridge of her brow. What was he doing?

"Angel, she's still unconscious." Cordelia frowned. "She doesn't know you're-"

Buffy's eyes flew open, and a deep gasp of breath shuddered into her lungs. She blinked, and blinked again, trying to clear her confusion. Cordelia could see her unfocused eyes darting around the room, looking for something to give her bearings.

"Hey, Buffy," Cordelia said, still using her calm the wild animal voice. Angel's hands were moving now, pressing against the crook of an elbow, the curve of an ear, any unbroken, unbandaged part of her. She seemed to notice suddenly that someone was touching her. Then Buffy's eyes snapped into focus, locking on Angel's face above her.

She opened her mouth and screamed.

Angel reached for her again, hovering over her, trying to get close to her. Cordelia jumped up from her seat. He was murmuring in something Cordelia didn't think was English. Buffy shrank back and away from him, still screaming, panic in her eyes.

Cordelia grabbed his arm, and pulled. "Back up!" she yelled. She pushed past Angel and got between him and Buffy. She tried to force Buffy to focus on her face. "You're safe," she said as soothingly as she could. Buffy was still staring at Angel, still screaming. Cordelia turned and looked at him. "She's scared. Back up!" She could tell he heard her because he crumpled as if he'd been hit, wincing in on himself. He stumbled back a step.

Two doctors burst into the room, and Cordelia moved away from the bed as they crowded around it. She found herself next to Angel, who was craning to see what they were doing. Buffy's thrashing and hoarse screams trailed off into silence after one of the doctors injected something into her IV.

The other doctor turned to them. "She can't be aggravated like this. Who are you people? Are you family?"

"Yes," Cordelia lied easily. "She's my cousin. Amazing isn't it? Obviously my mother got the bone structure and the good hair genes." She flashed a smile, and glanced over at Angel. "This is her...fiancИ. He doesn't talk much."

"Well, I don't know what you two were doing to her, but-"

"She just woke up screaming," Cordelia said. "We didn't do anything. We just wanted to help."

"She has been through quite a great deal of trauma," the first doctor said. "She may not have known exactly where she was." He clicked a pen and pulled her chart from the foot of the hospital bed. "I'm ordering a psych consult."

"Great," Cordelia said. "She needs it." The second doctor gave her a slightly odd look. "I mean because she was attacked. Post-traumatic whatever."

"Press the call button if you need help."

"You got it." She flashed another smile.

The second doctor narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Cordelia widened her smile and tried to look as vacant as possible. He hesitated, but followed the other one out. Once they were gone she turned to Angel. He was staring at Buffy. Cordelia grabbed his hand. He didn't react to the touch. But at least he hadn't jerked away.

"Angel," she said.

He didn't answer.

"Angel, I know you're in a weird place right now, but you've got to snap out of it."

He just stared, doing his best impression of a statue again.

Cordelia groaned. "You can't help her like this. She needs you to be like a rational person!" She let his hand go, and turned to look at Buffy again. "I need you to be a rational person!" She frowned. "We have to figure out what's going on." There was fresh blood seeping through one of the bandages on Buffy's arm where one of the wounds must have reopened during the struggle. Cordelia spoke absently. "She wasn't just afraid. She was afraid of-"

"Me," Angel said.

* * *

Drusilla was submerged in the bathtub. Her eyes were open, staring up through the cold water, and Spike could see her whimpering. Burned skin, waterlogged, trailed from her arms. Angry red marks scaled her ribcage, encroached on her breasts. He looked down at their joined hands under the water. His duster was charred, burned into the cooked skin around his wrist, across his back. He knew this in the back of his mind. He knew it hurt, constant, deep.

He knew, but he didn't feel.

It was just pain.

"Spike," Sammy called from the kitchen. "I talked to that guy I know. He's not exactly a doctor. But he patches stuff up with no questions asked." The red skinned demon appeared at the door to the bathroom. "He'll be here in an hour." He hesitated. "How's she doing?"

Spike felt a bit like he was the one underwater. Everything seemed distorted, thick, slow. The light seemed to bend and waver around him. He blinked. There had been a question. Oh. "Yeah," he said. "She's not good. But she'll make it." He pushed some of her sodden hair back where it drifted into her eyes. "I've seen worse." He corrected himself. "I've been worse." Those dragging, torturous months confined to that blasted chair. Those horrible months, weeks, hours, minutes. So many interminable minutes trapped, watching her slip through his useless fingers. Watching Angel take her. Helpless. Pathetic. Bound by injury then as surely as the soldier boys had bound him with technology. Toothless.

He was free now. She'd set him free.

He still hadn't been able to save her. To spare her this. He hadn't been able to stop Angel from taking everything he wanted. From taking Dru. From taking Buffy. From walking like some messiah through a hail of weapons-fire, miraculously touched by nothing. They were nothing to him. Spike was nothing to him, not even an obstacle. He took what he wanted and burned the rest.

Just like the old days. Nothing really changed.

And Spike hadn't been able to do anything but run.

Fucking helpless. Just like always.

Fucking Angel.

He held on tighter to Dru's hand, turned the tap to let more water into the tub. She reached up a second hand to him, her muted crying rising up from under the water. He was glad he couldn't make out the words. He didn't want to know if she was calling for her Angel. Her Angel, even now. She pulled herself up, sat, trembling, her voice thin, wavering around him and breaking like light on rippling water.

"Spike," she cried, and he felt something loosen in him, something sharp and tight. He couldn't stand to hear anything but his name in her mouth. Not now. "Make it stop."

"The doctor's coming, and I'll find you something sweet to eat."

She pressed her wet forehead against his knee. Dark blisters marred her left cheekbone. "It hurts," she moaned.

"I'll make it stop, pet." He hesitated with his fist half formed. "Look at me." She tilted her head up to look at him. He held her steady with one hand, punched her hard with the other. Her head rocked, her eyes rolled up, and he slipped her unconscious back down into the water.

It couldn't always end this way. One of these nights, the two of them would be on top. He bared his teeth. One of these nights.

* * *

Buffy was floating. The water was warm, and it felt like being held, the way it surrounded her and lifted her without effort.

She wiggled her fingers and felt the ripples against her ribs. She stared up at an endless sky so black it looked like liquid, filled with more stars than anybody in smoggy, constantly lit LA would ever dream were possible.

It was peaceful here.

Quiet.

Empty.

There was no pain.

* * *

"Angel," Cordelia said in surprise. "You're talking."

"Yeah," he said softly, a little bit sheepish. He forced himself to tear his eyes from Buffy. Cordelia's head was cocked, studying him.

"So, are you...back?"

"I guess so." He let his eyes slip back to Buffy. He tried to push the overwhelming instincts that buzzed through him down, aside. He tried to focus and feel the world around him as if it were three-dimensional and real and immediate instead of a blurry distraction to the one real thing. The girl lying in the bed in front of him. "I'm okay."

Cordelia gave him a small smile. "She's going to be alright."

He wrenched his eyes up again. "I know. Of course, she will." Words felt odd in his mouth, he could feel the shape of them against his tongue, like something cold and smooth and foreign. "I know," he said again.

"But something happened to her," Cordelia said. "I mean...partly it's kind of obvious. What they did to her." She motioned to the bandages and the stanched flow of blood and the wounds that Angel knew would heal. "But that doesn't explain-"

"Why shouldn't she be afraid of me?" Angel said bitterly. "She came here to help, and I pushed her away. I put her in danger. It's because of me she was captured. Tortured."

Cordelia shook her head. "You know she wouldn't think like that or blame you for-"

"Why not? It's true, isn't it?"

"It was my vision that sent her into the trap," Cordelia said. "She wasn't screaming when she saw me. Something else is going on. Something they did."

Angel forced himself to remember Buffy the way he'd seen her when he entered the warehouse. Bound. Bleeding. Drusilla with the knife. "Dru," he said, understanding.

"What about her?"

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Maybe the doctors were right. Maybe it's better if I leave. I don't want to upset her."

"Angel," Cordelia said. "Be reasonable. She just came out of a slight coma. She wasn't in her right mind." She hesitated. "That said. If you want to hang back a little right when she comes to, I wouldn't say no."

Angel lifted the fingers that had drifted to graze the back of Buffy's hand, felt the world come a little bit loose and unstable again. He stepped back and pressed his back to the wall, something solid, and wrapped his arms tightly around his chest.

* * *

Buffy tried to move her arm and couldn't. She realized she couldn't feel the water she knew must still be there, holding her up. In fact, she couldn't feel her body at all.

Maybe she was disappearing. Maybe her body was already gone.

She didn't really mind.

She heard voices, as if from far, far away. She thought she recognized them.

No.

She didn't know anyone. She'd always been here. Floating.

Yes.

The voices had nothing to do with her.

She ignored them and concentrated on the stars. She would count them. That would take a long time. Maybe forever. By the time she was done, the voices would be gone. By the time she was done, maybe she'd be done disappearing. Maybe no one would be able to find her. Touch her. Reach her. Ever again.

Yes.

She started to count.

The voices continued, grew louder.

She shivered.

How could she be cold if she had no body?

And as suddenly as she thought it, her body was back. She wiggled her fingers. It hurt. The ripples bounced off her ribs. It hurt all over.

The warm water was draining away. She could feel herself sinking. The more she sank, the louder the voices got.

She did recognize them.

No.

Louder.

Yes.

She moved her arms, trying to swim, trying to pull herself back up, away from the voices, toward the stars. The pain just got worse.

She didn't want to know. She didn't want to think. She didn't want to be.

It wasn't just the voices. She couldn't remember exactly what it was. What she was afraid of. Where she would go if she wasn't here. But she knew she didn't want it. She knew it was hard, and it hurt. She knew she was tired.

She was so tired.

The voices were right in her ears, and she felt herself land on hard ground. The breath whooshed out of her lungs, and she opened her eyes.

* * *

Gunn opened his eyes slowly. For a moment everything was a blur. Then it resolved itself into a white blanket covering his legs, and a bunch of beeping machines, and Wesley sitting in a chair next to the bed with a magazine in his hands.

Gunn cleared his throat, and whispered. "Hey, English."

Wesley looked up, putting the magazine aside. He reached for the small plastic water jug on the table next to Gunn's bed. He poured some, and held it out. "Thirsty?"

Gunn started to nod, then stopped when he felt the pounding in his head start. He realized his body was mostly numb, and smiled as Wesley held the cup to his mouth. "These drugs are pretty hot," he said. "Can't feel a thing." He had a sudden thought, and sat up, then sank back down when pain flared dimly in his midsection.

"Ouch."

"What's wrong?" Wesley asked.

"Had a scary thought," Gunn said. He saw the questioning look on Wes's face, and sighed. "Not feeling anything shook me for a second. Like maybe it wasn't the drugs." Comprehension dawned in his friend's face. "But it's good. When I sat up, I sure as hell felt it." Gunn forced a weak grin. "The others?" he asked.

"Buffy's out of surgery. They had to stop some internal bleeding. She should be fine."

"She'll be good," Gunn said. "Freaky Slayer powers and all." He let a little admiration into his voice. "Never met a girl like that before." He paused. "Don't tell Cordy I said that."

Wesley smiled, taking off his glasses to rub tired hands over his eyes. "Cordelia is with Buffy and Angel now. She said something about your truck."

"Tell me she didn't drive my-"

"She didn't."

"And Angel?"

"He's still..."

"What happened back there anyway?" Gunn asked.

"I think when he saw Buffy in danger, he just...couldn't think about anything else."

Gunn took another absent sip of water. "Did you see the way he went in there? And those weapons just like..." he looked for the right word, "couldn't touch him. They just bounced right off him, like he was-"

"No doubt protected by some sort of spell," Wesley said. "The demons were able to touch him with their claws so it must have been the weapons themselves. They were probably enchanted in some way."

"But why would Darla and them stockpile a bunch of weapons that couldn't hurt the one guy who really wanted to kill them?"

"They wouldn't," Wes said. "Someone else must have enchanted them."

"Someone who wanted Angel protected." Gunn cocked an eyebrow. "At least they're on our side."

"Maybe," Wesley said. "They have reasons for wanting Angel alive. Those reasons may not place them on our side." He paused. "I'm sure we haven't heard the last of it."

Gunn snorted. "I can't wait."

* * *

Lindsey was lying on the couch with a plastic bag full of ice sitting on top of half his face, and a half a glass of whiskey balanced in the middle of his chest. The inside of his mouth was sore, cut up and not quite finished bleeding. The whiskey stung with every sip. The pain slowed him down, but he kept swallowing anyway. He'd taken a handful of Codeine leftover from back when his hand got involuntarily amputated, but the throbbing of his entire body had yet to fade.

He wondered vaguely what was going on out there. Whether Cordelia and the others were dead. Whether Angel had┘ Well, whatever it was the Senior Partners wanted him to do. He couldn't bring himself to feel more than a little abstract curiosity. A very little.

The knock on the door was unexpected. At first he ignored it. It wasn't a very loud knock anyway. But it kept going, not loud but desperate. He groaned, secured his whiskey and his ice bag and staggered over to the door. For fuck's sake. Couldn't they leave a man to bleed in peace?

He had to put something down to fumble the door open. He decided to lose the ice. The whiskey seemed more important at this particular moment. He unlocked the door, not bothering with the peephole. It didn't really matter who it was. If it was someone here to kill him, he was pretty sure the chain lock wasn't going to stop them.

The door swung open, and Darla stared at him through wet, singed hair, and raw blisters that crawled up her neck. Her clothes were charred rags, soaked and dripping. He silently grabbed the ice off the counter and handed it to her. She took it from him without a word, the fingers of her right hand blackened, cracked.

They stared at each other for a long time. Her eyes were still bright, bright blue. Filled with pain and age and secrets.

"You double-crossed us with the weapons," she finally said. Her voice was as cracked as her skin, a ragged whisper.

It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway. "Yeah."

She nodded, moved the ice bag from one hand to the other. "I guess I'm impressed," she said lightly. "I didn't think you had it in you." Her eyes were narrowed. Lindsey reminded himself that she was outside. That he hadn't invited her in. He was safe on this side of the door.

"You here to kill me?" he said.

After a moment, she said, "No." She shifted her weight, her tongue flicking against corner of her mouth, poking at the raw torn skin there. "Can I come in?" she asked.

Safe. As long as she was outside. "Yeah," he said, and took a step back. He'd never been very good at safe.

She edged inside the apartment, limping slightly. "So," he said. "I guess you had nowhere else to go." It wasn't meant to sound as defensive as it came out. She was pulling at her charred clothing, stripping it ruthlessly from her body, taking tortured skin with it. He grabbed her wrist with his good hand. "Hey, stop," he said. "That'll make it worse."

"It'll heal," she said. "It's just skin." Her low voice was a half-growl.

"Yeah, but there's no reason to make it worse." He pulled on her wrist. "Come with me." Her wrist tensed under his hand. He half expected her to kill him right then, but her muscles relaxed under his fingers, and she followed him when he led her to the bathroom. "I know I have a pair of scissors in here somewhere." She climbed into the shower when his back was turned and stood under the water.

He stepped into the shower behind her, and started to cut away at her dress. She stood with her head tilted up into the cold spray while he stripped away most of the fabric. Some of it was charred into the skin of her back, her left arm. The cold water soaked through his own clothes. His teeth chattered together, and he shivered. She turned, and let him cut away the front of her dress. The burns were less on this side of her, and he pulled away the pieces of sodden fabric until there was nothing left. He stood still, his body shaking with the cold and stared at her. She cocked her head, arched her back. Her skin was so pale. The burns were so dark, sliding up her throat, her arms. He dropped the scissors.

She grabbed a handful of his soaked shirt, pulled him closer, under the cold spray. Her fists closed, and with a quick jerk she ripped his shirt apart like tearing paper. His skin felt like ice. When she slid her hands down his chest, pressed her fingers hard against the dark bruises on his ribs, he hissed at the pain, the sudden rush of heat.

She stepped closer, pressed her bare breasts flat against him, turned her head up. Her lips, her tongue, crushed against the underside of his chin. She bit down, nipping at his jawline. It stung as she drew blood. It burned. Her tongue slid wet against his skin, and he closed his eyes.

"So I guess Angel-" he started. Her teeth drew blood again, sharp and bright. His breath hitched.

"Let's not talk about Angel," she whispered, husky against his ear.

Neither of them said his name again. But he was still there between them. Even when there was no space left between them, when all Lindsey could feel was her lips cracked and wet against his, his tongue in her mouth, her teeth inside him, and the slippery slide of skin on skin. Angel was still there. So close Lindsey could taste him on her skin, smell him on his own.

* * *

Buffy stared into a face she recognized. "Cordelia."

She was hovering anxiously over the edge of the bed. "Do you know where you are?"

Buffy glanced around at the sterile white walls, the monitors beeping softly all around her. "Well, this lovely gown would suggest the hospital," Buffy said. Her voice scraped at her throat, and emerged a soft rasp, like she'd been screaming too long.

"Do you remember what happened?"

She raised her bandaged hand to her head and winced as she remembered pain. She closed her eyes. Yes. She remembered pain. Fire. Angel carrying her. Angel hurting her. No. Drusilla. Angel. Pain. She took a shallow breath. "I remember enough." A movement caught her eye, and she noticed Angel hunched in the corner. She tensed. Then forced herself to let the breath she was holding go, to unbunch her muscles, unclench her teeth.

"Angel," she said.

"Do you want me to go?"

She wanted him to go so she could have peace. She wanted him to stay so he could have the same. It wasn't his fault. "No." She smiled. Her face warmed with a flash of pain. Her fingers hovered above the bandaged cut on her cheek.

"I know, Dru┘" he started. "I think I know what she did. If I make you uncomfortable┘"

"It wasn't you," she said. "It wasn't your fault."

"Can you tell us what exactly happened?" Cordelia asked.

"Dru did some mind warp thing on me. She made me think it was Angel when she was┘" Buffy looked at Angel, his face strained with guilt. "When she did this," she finished, sweeping her eyes over her damaged body. "I know it wasn't you," she said to Angel.

He moved closer, his hand rising, fingers reaching toward her. He touched the outside of her wrist, and she shrank from him, pulled away before she could stop herself. He backed up a step. She couldn't look him in the eye.

"I know it wasn't you," she said stubbornly.

He nodded. "I'll just be outside."

"Wait." Buffy turned to Cordelia. "Could you┘give us a seccond."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm perfectly safe."

"I know but┘"

"You don't have to do this," Angel said.

"Hey, aren't you supposed to humor the person in the hospital bed?" Buffy said. "Doesn't surgery get me any power points to boss you people around with?" Cordelia frowned. Buffy frowned back. "Just a few minutes."

"You're the invalid," Cordelia said, exchanging a glance with Angel on her way out.

"You don't have to do this."

"You said that already."

"You don't seem to be listening."

"Angel," she said. "Come here." He had his back pressed against the wall like he was glued there. "Here," she said again. She borrowed Willow's resolve face, and he slowly moved away from the wall, slowly inched closer to the bed. He stopped at the edge of the bed, his posture brittle. She reached over and took his hand, cradled it palm up in her cupped fingers, before pressing her own palm to his. She kept her eyes on their hands, on their fingers laced together. "See," she said. "It's okay." She looked up at him, felt her throat clench as panic tried to rush through her. She waited until it passed, until she could honestly meet his eyes, his worried, cringing eyes. Until she could look at him and not be afraid. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," he said. He started to pull back his hand, but she wouldn't let him. She might have been just out of surgery, but she was still the Slayer and if she wanted his hand she was damn well going to keep it. "This is my fault."

"Please. I would roll my eyes but it hurts too much right now."

"I was blind. I pushed you away. I let you get captured." He looked down at their hands, at the burns on her wrist. "I almost burned you to death."

"Yeah, you were and you did," Buffy said flatly. "You lost your mission, and you went off the rails. And there are things that are on your head. But you didn't do this to me."

"If I had just-"

"Did you ask me to come here?" Buffy said. "Clearly not. I came on my own. My choice. You didn't do any of this to me." He met her eyes, and she glared at him. "I am not going to let you do this." He started to protest, but she steamrolled him easily. "You have enough to fix. You have enough stuff that really is your fault. Like Cordy and Wes and Gunn and what you did to them. Fix that. Worry about that."

His fingers tightened around hers, and he reached for her with his free hand, brushed lightly over the top of her head, against her hair. His jaw clenched and unclenched like he was chewing on all things he wanted to say, wanted to scream. On everything he felt. When he met her eyes again, he had enough control to talk. "How can you forgive me? Again?"

"I just can," she said. "How could you forgive me?"

"For what? You never did anything to me. I'm the one that keeps hurting you. No matter how much I try┘ No matter what I do┘"

"Angel, I sent you to hell. I looked you in the eye, and I knew it was you and I killed you."

"You were saving the world."

She shook her head. "It's not that simple, is it?" She cocked her head, met his eyes deliberately. "You know that better than anyone. Maybe it's true that it was the only thing I could have done. Maybe. But it still felt like I was betraying you." She looked away, focusing on the way her knees made lumps under the bedspread, trying not to remember. She whispered, "The way you looked at me."

"No," he said, and reached for her. He tucked a finger under her chin, forced her to look up. "Don't do that."

"You have to be angry with me," she said. "You have to blame me."

"It's over. It's done," he said. "I didn't blame you. I don't blame you. And I'm fine. You didn't kill me. You didn't do anything."

But looking at his face, she saw him cutting her. Hurting her. Punishing her. She squeezed her eyes shut. It hadn't been him. It was Dru. It wasn't real. It wasn't true. But she could still see it, with her eyes closed. His face. The knife. He'd been so angry. So hurt. She'd done that to him. "You have to blame me," she said.

"I don't," he said. He knelt down by the bed, pressed their joined hands against his forehead. "I don't."

She opened her eyes, and looked at the top of his head. Felt his lips on the backs of her knuckles. He turned to look at her, and his eyes were shiny, bright with pain. And she looked at him as hard as she could, looked for the resentment she thought he must hide somewhere, looked for that angry, cold man who'd cut her. Looked until she was sure she didn't see it.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry. It's just Dru. It's stupid."

"Buffy┘"

"Look," she said. "If you can forgive me for what I did, then I can forgive you too, okay? We're not going to sit here and argue about which one of us hurt the other one worse. We both did plenty."

He shook his head. His jaw was flexing again, and she reached out to touch his hand, to run her fingers through his hair. It was filled with soot and dirt. She lifted her dirty hand and laughed, then quickly stopped when it hurt. She kept smiling a little though. "You need a bath."

He blinked, seeming to notice that he had a body for the first time. He winced. "Ouch." He looked down at the burned patches on his jacket and reached up to touch the back of his neck. "I think I got burned."

Buffy raised an eyebrow at the large raw patch where the top of his jacket looked like it had melted into his skin. "I didn't want to say anything." He winced again. "You should probably get it looked at."

"Later," he said, lowering his head to rest against her hip. "Right now I'm here."

She smiled, her fingers lacing through his like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place. "So am I."

* * *

Angel poked his head in through the door to Gunn's room. Wes and Cordelia were there on either side of the bed, all three of them laughing about something to do with karaoke. They stopped laughing when they saw him enter. He cleared his throat uneasily, unsure what to say when there were no words that could possibly fix what he'd broken.

"How's Buffy?" Cordelia asked.

"Sleeping," he said. "She's doing better. Considering." He slipped through the door, glancing behind him as it clicked shut. "I'm going back in a minute, but I wanted to┘" He hesitated. "Well, she said there were things I needed to try to fix. With you. And she was right. I┘"

"Let me guess? You're sorry?" Cordelia said. Angel shrugged a shoulder, of course it wasn't enough, but what else was there. "That's great, but what stops you from plunging straight off the deep end again four months from now?"

"I can't make any promises," Angel said. "You know that. All I can do is say, I know I was wrong. I see that now."

"And I'm glad. But that? Not really reassuring," Cordelia said.

"I think what we're trying to say," Wesley put in. "Is we do need you, Angel. We want you on the team, and we can forgive you for slipping."

Gunn choked. "Slipping? Is that what you want to call it?"

Wesley continued. "But it's clear that we can't depend on you to run this business. Forgive me, but we need someone stable. Someone who-"

"-we don't have to worry is going to turn evil," Gunn said.

"Or fire us," Cordelia put in.

"I understand I have to earn your trust back, and I will." So this would be his penance. If this was the price, he would hand it all over to them, hand himself over to them and try to trust that he could follow, that they could lead. He could do this. He was good at penance. Angel spread his hands. "I'll accept whatever you decide."

"The only problem is," Wesley said. "If it's not you, who gets to be the boss? We still need a leader."

Cordelia and Gunn both raised their hands.

"We're not going to call it The Chase Agency," Wesley said.

"Actually, smart ass," Cordelia snapped back. "I was going to nominate you to be the bossman."

Gunn grinned, "Great minds."

"Angel?" Wesley said. Angel could hear the doubt in his voice, and he couldn't say he was completely free from doubt himself. Wesley, a leader? Could he handle it? Was he strong enough? He would have to be.

Angel nodded. "I third the motion."

"You can't really be surprised, Wes. Look at the shallow pool we're drawing from here."

"Don't let it go to your head, English."

Wesley was still hesitating somewhere between proud and terrified.

"You'll be great," Angel said.

Wesley bobbed his head in a nervous nod. Could he really run this? Keep the business afloat? Keep them all from killing each other? Keep them all from getting killed? Had he changed that much or was he still the bumbling Watcher? He's always been a failure, a disappointment, had anything really changed? He wasn't sure, but who else was there? He took a deep breath. "Right then," he said. "So what do you think of Wyndym-Price Incorporated?"

Cordelia made a gagging motion.

He smiled. "Kidding." He looked at Gunn and Cordelia exchanging goofy faces at each other. And Angel his head bowed, his mouth turned up in a slight smile as he shook his head. Wesley took another breath. These were his people. He wouldn't let them down. He wouldn't fail. They were too important. He would do whatever it took; he would be whatever he had to be to keep them all safe.

"We do have a few things to figure out," he said. "Like why Cordelia's visions are suddenly manifesting themselves on her physical being."

"Yeah, and we should probably look into why that one vision cut me too."

"What do you mean?" Angel said, his head snapping up. "When did this happen?"

"While you were busy having a meltdown," Gunn said.

"I had a vision of a sacrifice. Buffy went to stop it."

"And it was a trap," Gunn said.

"Have you had any other visions since then?" Angel asked, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Yeah, of the warehouse. That's why we were there."

"And did that vision hurt you?"

"Not outside the normal head-splitting migraine from hell."

Wesley looked at Angel, and could see his own suspicions reflected there.

"Okay boys, share with the rest of the class."

"It's just, shall we say, interesting that the vision with the unusual side effects was the one that led Buffy into a trap," Wesley said.

"Is interesting really the world?" Cordelia said. "There could be scarring, people."

"You think someone planted the vision," Angel said.

"It's a possibility."

"Wait, you're saying someone hijacked my head?"

"And somehow manufactured a false vision," Wesley said. "Perhaps. This is, of course, speculation."

"How could someone even do that? Don't the PTB have a lock on there or something?" Gunn raised his eyebrows.

"It would require a good deal of power."

"And who has the resources to find someone strong enough to hijack a tool of the Powers?" Angel's lips twisted cynically.

"Wolfram and Hart," Wesley answered. Angel nodded back at him.

"Hey! Who are you calling a tool?" Cordelia burst in.

"So how do we stop them from doing it again?" Gunn asked.

"Obviously whoever it is, is working with Darla," Angel said.

"Uh oh," Cordelia said.

"I'm not going to go off the deep end."

"Again," Cordelia corrected.

"Again," Angel agreed.

"So you say."

"Despite any past obsessions," Wesley put in. "Angel is correct. The vision led Buffy into Darla's trap, therefore she must have been connected to it in some way."

"Sorry, past obsessions aren't that far past," Cordelia said. "It was like yesterday. So I hear Angel say the name Darla, I get jumpy."

"You're not the only one," Gunn said.

"Even so, we will have to deal with this," Wesley said. "Before another vision is forced on you."

"Believe me, I'm on board with me not getting cut up or worse. I'm just saying┘ it makes me jumpy."

"Whatever was, or is, between me and Darla I can handle it," Angel said. "I know this is about helping the helpless, not about winning a war. I'm not going to lose sight of that."

Cordelia raised a doubtful brow, but shrugged her shoulders. "We'll see," she said.

"If we can try to move on to something productive, I'm going to get started on the research," Wes said.

"I'll help." Cordelia waved away his look of surprise. "Hey, it's my ass on the line here."

"I'm going to go make sure Buffy's okay," Angel said. "But I'll check in with you tonight."

"I'll just stay here then," Gunn said. "Maybe sleep or see if I can score some tasty IV fluids or something."

"And that, folks, is what we call a plan," Cordelia said.

Cordelia patted Gunn on the shoulder, and Wes clasped his hand before they moved toward the door. Angel nodded gingerly in his direction, and after a moment Gunn nodded back. It was a start.

* * *

Buffy woke from a dreamless sleep, opened her eyes and for a few seconds had no idea where she was. For a few seconds she was at peace. And then she heard the monitors beeping, and felt the dull aching of her body, and remembered. She closed her eyes again, grasping for that empty dreamlessness, that nothingness where there was no pain, no monsters, no fight, no nothing. No Buffy. But it was gone.

She looked up as Angel quietly pushed the door open.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said. "I meant to be here when you woke up."

"Ah, I know your type. Always off carousing while other people are sleeping or stuck in their hospital beds." She smiled, and it felt brittle and her cheek hurt worse than before so she stopped. "Did you talk to them?"

"Yeah, things are┘" He let out a breath. "We're working on it."

"Good."

The looked at each other for a time. Him with his arms crossed by the door, her plucking at the blue hospital blanket.

"Are you okay?" he said finally.

"Is that a trick question?" She waved at the bandages. "I'm great, obviously."

"I'm not talking about that. I know how fast you heal. You'll be out of here in a couple days."

"And heading back to Sunnydale." The thought was like a Bezoar sitting on her chest, crushing all the air out of her lungs. "Good old Sunnydale."

"I'm sure they're worried about you." She concentrated on picking fuzz off her blanket and rolling it between her fingers into a ball. "I'm worried about you."

"You're worried? You're the one who-"

"I know, but you're-"

"I'm the Slayer, Angel. This is how it goes."

"You didn't used to be so┘"

"Tired?" She flicked her fuzz ball off toward the foot of the bed.

"Something like that."

"Of course I'm worn out. It's just┘"

"Lonely."

"Yeah."

"Relentless."

"Yeah." She felt tears start to prickle in the back of her nose. She blinked them back. "I'll be fine." And it was a lie. But she didn't know how to tell the truth, not about this. Not even to him. Especially not to him.

And she knew he could see the lie, but he smiled and lied too when he said, "I know you will." She nodded because she knew no one could help her. Not even him. Especially not him.

Then Angel's hand was in hers, and his lips were on her forehead. And then they pressed gently against her swollen lips. She closed her eyes and breathed in long and slow. She was so tired. She could feel the ache of her wounds under the medication. And in another day or two she'd be on her way back to Sunnydale and her mom's cancer, and protecting Dawn from the invincible, and battles that never, never ended. Back to being alone even when she had her family, her Xander and Willow, her Giles. Always alone, and it was so heavy.

But that was tomorrow. Or the next day. Today she was holding Angel's hand and his lips were soft and hungry and desperate against hers, and he filled her emptiness up with something warm. They were both so broken, but when he kissed her for a second she felt whole. Whole and strong and no longer alone. When she let out her breath, breathed into his mouth, she thought maybe this would be enough to take back with her. Enough to live on when she was in Sunnydale, and she started to forget what it was to be happy, to feel anything past duty and bone deep weariness. Maybe this was enough.

Maybe it wasn't.

The end

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I apologize for how long this fic has taken to complete, and for any sucking that may have slipped through here in the last part. I hope I was able to write the conclusion this fic deserves, but seeing as it's been languishing unfinished for years now I figured even if there are dubious patches you'd rather have it finished than unfinished. I know I would. Thank you to anyone who read this fic when I started it, to anyone who's kept up with it as the years dragged on unforgivably with no updates, and to anyone who's just now finding it. I appreciate it more than I can say._


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